Anagram Stories
by Blood Dark Sun
Summary: A collection of humorous short chapters based on anagrams of the names of the chapter characters. Rated T for language, drinking, innuendo. Some continuity in later chapters.
1. South Italy and Britain

_This is an ongoing collection in which I'm going to submit a character pair or group name to the anagram generator, pick a result, and write a chapter with that theme, between 1000 and 1500 words per chapter. The stories will not necessarily be "pairings" but interactions between the characters. They'll feature a different set of characters in each chapter. But of course I must start off with my favorite pairing. The anagram is given at the end of the story._

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><p><strong>South ItalyBritain.**

Tonight Alfred Jones was hosting a Yuletide ball. Groaning buffet tables laden with exotic treats ringed the edges of the gigantic ballroom. Silks and laces were abundant in the formal dress of the guests, who congregated by the fountains running with wine or in the gaming rooms. Young servers bearing trays of champagne glasses circulated among the growing crowd. A string quartet played in the corner, although the sounds were becoming fainter as the conversation in the room grew more animated.

The quartet struck up the sounds of a minuet. Alfred stepped to the side of the room and extended a hand to lead his date into the room.

Wearing a lavishly-embroidered pale plum gown and a diamond tiara, Arthur Kirkland was blushing like a madman, worrying his lower lip in his teeth, eyes on the floor before him. He was quite thankful the ridiculous gown reached to the floor, so that he could wear his boots underneath, rather than the strappy high heels Alfred had been advocating. Yes, it might be unattractive to wear combat boots with a fancy silk gown, but at least he knew he wouldn't trip and fall.

Arthur was very embarrassed by this whole ordeal and simply hoped to make it through the evening without doing anything stupid. He felt very alone in the middle of this large crowd, and quite irritated with his friend Alfred, who had made him dress up like his date tonight. Several hours' worth of fighting had not made the stubborn Alfred change his mind. Since the ball had been about to begin, Arthur had (very reluctantly) agreed to don the beauty-queen ensemble so Alfred wouldn't be late to greet his guests. Now he just wanted to escape. He would not be forgiving his friend for this anytime soon!

Most of the guests clapped dutifully as Alfred led him to the center of the dance floor. They began to dance the minuet. Arthur kept his eyes on the floor. He could tell Alfred was beaming at him and it was making him more irritable. Some other couples joined them for the minuet...a dance that Arthur didn't even like, although he could do it quite well.

Suddenly there was a commotion from one of the buffet tables. "_Me_ next, fratello!"

"Shut up, you idiot! I refuse! I categorically refuse! I'll make sure you don't get the chance!"

Alfred and his partner were distracted by the noise. From where they danced, they couldn't quite figure out what was happening. Alfred led Arthur to the noisy table, still holding his hand, although Arthur kept trying to pull away from the younger man's grip. He hated the way Alfred was treating him tonight.

Ah, it was the Vargas brothers shouting at each other. "Please, gentlemen, you are disrupting my party," the host smiled vaguely. They ignored him and continued yelling. It was difficult to make out what they were saying, as they'd both slipped into their native language, but it sounded very hostile. Alfred finally let go of Arthur's hand to try to forcibly separate the Italians. Arthur wiped his hand on the dress and looked down, still too self-conscious to make eye contact with anyone, feeling the weight of the diamond tiara shift slightly on his head.

"What is the problem?"Alfred finally bellowed.

Lovino and Feliciano stopped shouting and looked at him in shock. Arthur was still standing by, blushing, fiddling with the gold embroidery on his gown, staring at his feet as if his hot humiliated gaze could burn a hole in the polished wood floor for him to sink into. He hadn't quite understood what the brothers were fighting about either, and all he wanted now was to run out of the room and hide himself and his frilly dress.

"Ve, I want to dance with Arthur!" At this, Arthur lifted his gaze and looked at Feliciano in bewilderment, recoiling a little. Alfred, too, seemed a bit amazed.

"I told you, moron, he's going to dance with _me _next!" Lovino picked up a bread roll from the table and launched it at his brother. Feliciano retaliated with a steamed pork bun.

Arthur was so nonplussed he was almost minused. He watched the bun fight escalate with a dazed look on his face. Two famous lovers were fighting over the chance to dance with him? This was unreal. Maybe he should _thank_ Alfred for the stupid dress and tiara.

Almost all the guests nearby stopped what they were doing to watch, as Feliciano began throwing croissants at Lovino. The elder Italian continued to attack with the bread rolls at hand, but then his brother found a tray of firm Kaiser buns and began pelting them at Lovino. "He won't dance with you, fratello, he'll dance with me!"

"Ow! Over my dead body!" yelled Lovino, picking up an entire tray of cinnamon buns and flinging it at Feliciano's head with a growl. The tray bounced off his younger brother's face, making him flinch and cry out. Some of the buns stuck in his hair, icing coating the auburn locks, temporarily blocking his vision.

Although he was the host, Alfred was too stunned by this display to say or do anything. He seemed to have forgotten about Arthur's presence at his side. The other guests were either laughing or edging away from the conflict. Even the string quartet had stopped playing in order to watch.

Arthur decided to make a move. He reached out and tugged gently at Lovino's sleeve. "Come on," he hissed. "Let's get out of here while they're all distracted!" Lovino's eyes widened and he tossed one more cinnamon bun at his brother before taking Arthur's hand and running out of the grand hall under the surprised eyes of the assembled guests.

"_Ve-e-e_," they heard behind them. Arthur tore off the tiara and threw it onto the wide stone steps as the two of them escaped into the cold winter's night.

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><p><em>The anagram was "Tiara Bun Hostility." I started with this because I had done a bunch of Engmano phrases with the generator and this amused me in a Cinderella-like way.<em>

_The "Story Image" for this story is Gilbert in the tiara, from chapter 33. _


	2. Germany and North Italy

_By the way, these chapters do not necessarily take place in the same universe or sequentially. Also, some of these characters may repeat, eventually, in a different pairing. I'm sure Prussia will make several appearances, kesesese~. I guess it just depends what I feel like writing that day._

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><p><strong>GermanyNorth Italy.**

"Good grief," Germany breathed weakly. "Italy! How is it possible that so few men can make _so much noise_? We're trying to fight those vicious Allies and you and your men cannot shut _up?_ They will easily be able to spot our position if this kind of racket keeps up! I had expected there might be some military ineptitude from you all, but this is far beneath anything I had anticipated. You are all supposed to be bringing optimism and good feelings to our Axis comrades! This is not the effect I had been hoping for." He stopped and mopped his brow with a large white handkerchief, folding it carefully and stowing it in his jacket pocket before continuing. "Now, if we change the plan - if I ask you to put away your accoutrements and go _quietly _home – do you all think you can manage that?" He looked wearily at the assembled group before him. "It sounds like a plague of locusts out here!"

The hundred Italian men behind North Italy stood nattering to each other; the auburn-haired man was the only one that seemed to be paying any attention to Germany's rant. Dressed in choirboy robes or other vestments, each holding some piece of religious paraphernalia, the men had continued talking amongst themselves in rapid Italian all throughout Germany's increasingly-angry sermon. Occasionally one of them holding a censer would wave it over his comrades as a benediction; others raised hands to the sky in prayer or intoned Gregorian chants for victory. Lit candles glowed here and there in the evening light, bringing the air of a festival to the assembly. Good grief. If it were possible for him to send this whole army home with a flap of his hand, he'd do it. Never in the history of war had a commander been saddled with such a thing, he was certain. He had allowed Italy to assemble this unusual army in the hopes that it might help bring focus and determination to the Axis armies, but it seemed to be turning into a _hen party_. He'd even noticed some of the men sharing out _baked goods_ in the back! If they could only _focus, _North Italy might have had some success with them. Why, oh, why had he given in to Italy's suggestion? He should have known by now that these morale-building experiments never turned out well. Sometimes even the ones that Germany tried were failures.

By now Germany merely hoped the men would be gone before the Allies saw them. They didn't need to draw more Allied fire, especially on a peaceful company of priests. Things were bad enough already.

Italy beamed at the sight and sound of his new and pretty army, turning to look at them with pride. "Ve, I'm really sorry, Germany. We are doing the best we can, just as I had hoped! It's difficult to control a group this large. Would you like me to sprinkle you with holy water?" Italy looked up at his burly friend with a delighted smile.

Germany frowned menacingly and stamped his jackbooted foot. "No! I am a Lutheran! Your Catholic activities will have no effect on the intent fighting spirit of the vast German army!"

"Then why are we here, Germany? Japan isn't Catholic either! If we're only here to bring confidence to the Italian army, then we really didn't need this many men. _Ve~!"_ he yelled loudly, turning in place to call to his men. "We don't need you all! I can handle it from here. Go home, say your prayers, get some rest, and stay out of the sight of those vicious Allies, all right? Okay! Thanks for coming! _Buona notte_! Be careful and don't talk to any strangers!" The shorter man stood waving frantically at his friends in the religious brigade as they happily picked up their items and turned to head for home in small groups, singing joyful hymns of praise, or continuing to gossip noisily with each other. The soft susurration of their voices slowly began to fade off the field.

So Germany had gotten his wish. They were leaving. Would they stumble into the path of the Allied forces? Well, even though they'd been a chattering annoyance, he didn't want to see his friend's army in trouble. "Stay safe!" he thundered. "Beware of Allied ambushes! Thank you for your efforts."

Most of the men were gone by now, but the few who remained waved cheerfully at him and Italy before moving off, continuing to babble to each other happily.

Germany mopped his forehead again, thankful that this administrative headache had now passed from his hands. After placing the sweat-soaked handkerchief back into his pocket, he folded his arms across his chest and glared down at North Italy, the only man remaining on the now-quiet battlefield.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" he barked.

"Ve, nothing, Germany! Sorry! But they _looked_ good, didn't they? I'll go make us some pasta. You must be hungry after all that yelling." He slipped into the tent to fetch his pasta-cooking equipment.

Germany sat down on an empty tomato crate and sank his head in his hands. This was the last time he would allow Italy to work on morale-building schemes.

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><p><em>The anagram was "Holy Nattering Army."<em>

_At least in America, baked goods are a staple of any large Catholic gathering. _


	3. Prussia and Denmark

**Prussia/Denmark.**

"Man, this is the weakest parade I've ever seen, and I've seen a _lot_ of parades."

"Shut up, Prussia, you just can't accept that some parades are good even without all the military stuff."

"What's even the _point_ of a parade without military stuff? It's just people being goofy! You need the military stuff to show off how awesome you are, or were, and the nice uniforms and things. Military things in a parade always make the classiness factor go up."

"It's no wonder you're an ex-nation. How come nobody else wants to hang out with you? Because you're still hung up on your former military power. Note the word _former. _Get with the modern world, please." Denmark took a swig of rum from the bottle he was holding and passed it to his friend.

"I like rum. Thanks for bringing it out."

"It's from England. He sent a case of it over last week. There are only four bottles left."

"He always did have high-quality liquor." Prussia took a pull from the bottle. "Wait a minute. You've had eight bottles of rum in the last _week_?"

"Don't lecture me about my drinking habits, Prussia."

"I wasn't! I was going to say it was awesome! You drink more than anybody I know." He took another drink and handed the bottle back to the Dane. "Mm. But, now back to this discussion. What exactly is this parade supposed to accomplish, if you're not doing it for military reasons?"

"People want to have an excuse to celebrate, that's all. This is a festive occasion for people to get involved and have fun!" He drank.

"Give me the bottle." Denmark did so. "Well, now, maybe you have a point. I don't know. We never had these kinds of fun-people parades in Prussia."

"I know that. Everything was about the military with you. Doesn't Germany have parades like this now?" He snatched the bottle back from Prussia and finished it off.

"Hey! Get another bottle. But, you know, West is very touchy about parades. People always associate him with – you know, _bad_ parades."

Denmark snorted and opened the next bottle, taking a drink before passing it to his albino friend. "All parades are bad, if they're all about the military."

"Den! Shut up!" Prussia took a long drink from the bottle. "You have to understand that different people, different nations, like to do things differently."

"I do understand that. You can be a real idiot sometimes. If I didn't understand it, then why would I be having this nice, festive, fun parade, which is so different from your old military ones? Give me the bottle."

Prussia handed him the bottle and Denmark took a long drink, smacking his lips afterwards. "Rum is really good, I do have to admit."

"I know. Give it back to me."

Denmark handed it over; it was nearly empty by this point, so Prussia polished off what was left. "Got any more?"

"I just told you I did!" He stared down at the albino in irritation. "Should I open another bottle? No, don't even answer. I have to. If I'm going to keep listening to you, I need more booze."

"_High-quality liquor."_

Denmark ignored this and fetched the third bottle from his knapsack, throwing the empty one in the trash, where they heard it clink against the first one. "Now, here. Shut up and drink and stop yelling at me about my parades."

"I'm _not yelling at you!_" Prussia yelled. People nearby turned to look at the bickering nations, and some parents with young children edged out of the way.

Den started laughing at him. "You're not yelling at me?"

Prussia scrubbed his hands through his white hair and took a drink. "Grr. You know what I mean." He gestured towards the parade with the hand holding the bottle and nearly collided with a baton twirler in the street. "Whoops. Sorry!" The baton twirler just nodded, a little fearfully, and marched on.

"Get back here." Denmark grabbed Prussia by the arm and dragged him back from the curb so he wouldn't disturb the procession. "Give me that."

"Here." Prussia thrust the bottle at him irritably and stamped his foot. "You're so annoying sometimes. I don't even know why I hang out with you."

Denmark didn't answer, since he was busy drinking.

"Did you even hear what I said?"

"Yes, you cranky albino. Shut up and drink."

Prussia shut up and drank. He finished the bottle. "Damn it, Den, you really do know how to drink. Is there any more?"

"Are you an idiot?" was Denmark's response. "I told you there were four bottles. We have now finished three. Do you think there are any left?"

"Kesesese, you're so uptight!"

The Dane ruffled his own spiky hair in irritation. "You are absolutely impossible." He tossed the empty bottle and got out the last one, permitting himself the first, very long, drink. "At least if I'm drinking I can keep my cool with you. Here, drink." He handed Prussia the bottle, which was only slightly more than half-full at this point.

"Ah, I want to march in your goofy parade, Den. Come on." Laughing, he tried to drag his friend into the stream of marching citizens with one hand while brandishing the bottle with the other, but Denmark resisted.

"Get off! I don't want to interrupt the parade!" he yelled. Again, people began staring and moving tentatively away. By this time a marching band was directly opposite them.

"Denmark! Come on! Get out here and march in your parade!" Prussia yelled, still waving the bottle. When Denmark reached for it, he refused to pass it over. Instead, he jumped out into the middle of the parade and started cavorting, waving the now-empty bottle around like a drum major's baton, knocking into band members and upsetting their strides.

Den leaped into the parade to grab him, and caused a flautist to stumble into the band member next to him. As a pile of dominoes, the entire woodwind section struggled and fell on each other, instruments tangling together, curses and groans of pain floating up from the ground. Denmark was pinned under a tenor sax player, feebly kicking and struggling to free himself. As the ranks of marchers came forward, intent on their music, many of them stumbled on their fallen comrades and fell down too. In just a few short minutes the entire marching band was in a giant heap in the middle of the road, with Prussia standing proud in the middle of the musical carnage, waving the empty rum bottle and cackling "Kesesese~!"

The parade had to be cancelled.

…

_The anagram was "Rum Sinks Parade."_

_Part Skirmish Brothers, part anagram. Whatever._


	4. America and Japan

**America/Japan.**

"Hey, Japan, I'm happy you invited me to this party. I brought a whole bunch of good stuff!" America lifted two shopping bags and handed one to the dark-haired man. "That one has a great cake – red velvet with lemon frosting, with blue and orange roses on it – and the tubs of ice cream. I brought blueberry-mint with gummi bears, that's from one of my west coast dairies, and raspberry pistachio swirl with pretzel pieces, from the east coast. I'm glad I got here early, too. It's nice to have a little time together without worrying about lots of your other guests."

"What's in the other bag, America-san?" Japan asked politely as he put the ice cream away, shuddering. He placed the too-vivid cake on the kitchen counter, somewhat out of sight.

"Hah! In here is a jar of canapés. But it's a special jar! We have come up with a new clear polymer that resists breakage of any sort. Here, watch." America drew the jar from the bag. It was filled, surprisingly, with vol-au-vents; Japan recognized them, but hadn't realized America was so savvy about French cuisine. Frankly, Japan was surprised it wasn't filled with tiny hamburgers.

Before he could comment, America had flung the jar towards him. "Wah!" Japan caught the jar in surprise. "What are you doing, America-san?"

"Aw, Japan, I was trying to prove how break-resistant the jar was! Here, I'll take it back." America took the jar from Japan. Instead of returning it to the bag, however, he spun slightly in place and threw the jar towards the other door, into an empty corner of the kitchen.

Japan dived for it, managing to catch it before it hit the ground. He lay in a breathless heap on the floor, cradling the pastry-filled jar gingerly.

"Japan! Please! _Don't _catch it! I want you to see how it will bounce. It completely absorbs all shocks." He reached for the jar again. Japan handed it to him and stood up, brushing off his clothing.

"America-san. Please stop. You are exhausting me. I still have party preparations to complete!"

The blond pouted. "Come on, Japan, all you have to do is let me throw it, just once, and then you'll see how it bounces and absorbs shock, and we can be done! All right? You're the only one of my friends who would even be interested in something like this," he said in a soft, sad tone, looking at his friend with a pleading gaze.

Japan was really _not_ interested – for one thing, they had been making high-quality polymers of this sort in his country for quite some time – but he could never resist it when America started acting weak and needy. It made something flutter deep in his heart. He looked at the tiny little pout on the taller man's face and sighed. "Very well. You may throw the jar, and I will not catch it. We will see how it bounces and absorbs shock, and then I will open the jar and take the canapés out so that I can put them on a plate and serve them. Is that suitable?"

"Yes!" America beamed. "That's just what I wanted to do. In fact, I'll even put them on a plate _for_ you when we're done."

Japan stood with his back to the window in his kitchen. He had assumed America would throw it to the same place he'd aimed before, the empty corner.

But to his horror America threw it right past his face, grinning gleefully, and Japan jumped to catch it.

"What are you doing?" America yelled. "You said you'd let it bounce!"

"America-san. It was about to hit the window!"

"But it _won't break,_ Japan! I told you!"

Japan sighed and handed him the jar somewhat nervously. "The _jar_ may not break, but the _window_ would break. Please do not aim at anything that might break upon impact with your polymer canapé jar."

"Oh." Now America, red-faced, was pouting for real. It seemed he really hadn't considered the window's breakability factor. "Right. Okay, is it all right if I aim it over there?" He pointed to the empty corner of the kitchen.

"Yes, that's fine. Please hurry, because other guests will be arriving soon."

"Right. Stand back!" America drew back the jar in his arm and hurled it into the empty corner…where it shattered and shot vol-au-vents all over Japan's nice clean kitchen. "Whoops."

Japan's face got very red, but he did not yell at his guest. He did, however, take ten seconds to defuse his anger. "I will clean it up now. Please leave the room, America-san."

The younger nation's voice was sad. "N-no, it's my fault. If you get me a broom and dustpan or something, I'll clean it up. I'm really sorry, Japan. I guess we haven't perfected the unbreakable polymer yet." He sighed.

Japan wordlessly fetched a dustpan and brush and handed it to America, who bent down to begin sweeping up the broken plastic and now-inedible canapés. The dark-haired man watched for a moment and then picked up the brown bag that had held the so-called unbreakable jar. "There's something else in this bag, America-san. What is it?"

"Oh, just another jar of food," the blond said disconsolately. "You can take it out."

Japan withdrew the other jar. This second jar was filled with olives. "Olives from America?" he asked in disbelief as his guest finished sweeping up the last of the broken pieces. America dumped the shards in the trash and came to look.

"Augh!" he yelled, dropping the empty dustpan and smacking himself in the forehead.

"What's the matter? Are you hurt?" Japan moved to set the jar on the table so he could tend to his friend, but he missed, and the jar fell to the floor. In a panic, he jumped away, so he wouldn't be hit by more flying shards…but the jar simply bounced once and rolled under the table.

"Uh…_that_ was the unbreakable one," America muttered, turning away.

…

_The anagram was "Aim Canap__é__ Jar."_

_These chapters are like potato chips! I can't stop writing them._


	5. France and Spain

**France/Spain.**

Spain yawned. "Mi amigo, it's time for a siesta! I hadn't realized just how tired I was." It was a warm summer day. He and France were sitting in his tomato fields, talking of this and that, and the afternoon had begun to wear on. "Come on, let's lie back and have a little nap together."

"Oui, that's fine with me, cher Espagne, the sun is making me a little sleepy anyway." The two of them settled in on the warm sweet grass and went to sleep for a little while. When the sun began to sink, they awakened, grinning, and headed into the house, feeling refreshed.

…

The next time they were together, they had been wandering in a park, talking of their friends and of the upcoming meeting that both were due to attend. Spain checked his watch. "Again we have forgotten about siesta time!"

By this time in their lives France knew the impossibility of talking Spain out of a siesta, even when the dark-haired man had seemed energetic and lively just moments before. He (not for the first time) wondered how much of this was psychosomatic. "There's a bench over there. Shall we sit down, mon cher, and have a little snooze time on the bench?"

"Sí, that sounds good, Francia." They walked over to the bench and sat down together, France's head on Spain's shoulder, and slept for a little while.

A noisy child on a bicycle rode by, honking his horn at them. This startled them into waking up.

"Will you be all right with such a short nap, Espagne?"

"Yes, of course. As long as I get to sleep a _little_, I'm fine."

…

During the meeting, both France and Spain had gotten quite tired of listening to the other nations bickering. Eventually, after seeing Spain check the clock several times, France realized that a siesta was in the offing. When Spain stood, France stood up also, waving a dismissive hand at the other attendees. They each headed for a wing chair in the back of the conference room and sat down for a nap, smiling at each other before settling in to sleep.

Before falling asleep France vaguely wondered whether siestas might be addictive.

…

Spain's house was nice and warm. This was something France had always loved about the place. Here in the afternoon, each of them on a long, comfortable sofa, they sat discussing various crucial topics like the weather and the relative sizes of tomatoes that Spain had found in the fields. This sort of highly stimulating conversation eventually led them to fall asleep. After a brief nap, they both awoke refreshed.

"I always have the best naps when I'm with you, Espagne."

"Sí, because I am an expert!"

…

A few weeks later, Spain was visiting France's house; they were idly drinking wine and watching butterflies. "You know what I want to do now, amigo?"

"Take a nap?" France smirked.

"Why do you jump to such a conclusion? You seem to think all I ever do is lie around sleeping!"

"Can you tell me that is _not_ what you were going to say?" the blond countered, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

"I – uh –" his friend stammered with a grin, scratching his head.

"Yes, cher Espagne, you may have a siesta!" France laughed and laughed as they headed towards a nice guest room, where he got Spain comfortable.

He was about to leave the room when his drowsy friend said, "Come and sleep next to me, Francia, your bed is so nice…" He fell asleep before continuing.

Uncharacteristically, France yawned, and decided to join Spain for the nap. He lay next to him on the big guest bed and they took a little nap together.

When they awakened, Spain thanked his host and headed home with a smile.

…

Several weeks later, France had invited Spain to visit, and the two of them were going to tour Versailles. Spain hadn't been there in a long time, and he loved the elegant building, built by the ancestor of the Spanish House of Bourbon. He and France meandered aimlessly through the rooms, admiring things they'd admired long before, complaining of things they'd complained of before. Spain's conversation got more and more abstracted, although France didn't pick up on it at first.

"Mm, Francia, mi amigo…"

France was deep in contemplation of the now-shabby gilding in Marie Antoinette's bedchamber and merely replied, "Oui?"

When Spain didn't answer, his friend eventually turned to see what the problem was. Sacre bleu! Spain had fallen asleep on the Queen's Bed! France knew he needed to wake his friend up and get him out of there. But the bed actually looked rather inviting. France hadn't slept in it for many, many years. He climbed over the little railing and touched Spain gently on the shoulder.

"Wake up, mon cher, you can't sleep here."

Spain didn't move.

After a few more tentative pokes to his shoulder, France sat on the bed to try to awaken him, but he still couldn't get the dark-haired man to budge. In exasperation, he flung himself down on the bed and went to sleep. Just for a little while.

When they awakened, there was a group of tourists standing around the Queen's Bed, taking pictures of them.

"Whoops." They got up, slightly embarrassed, and left the palace.

…

_The anagram was "Fancier Naps."_


	6. Romano and Veneziano

**Romano/Veneziano.**

It was a beautiful fall day in Italy. "Fratello, let's go to the zoo today."

"Sure, idiot, I don't mind. Had nothing better to do anyway." The two Italians geared up for a day at the zoo, taking a bag with bottled water, snacks, their camera, and bug spray, just in case.

As they wandered around, looking at all the animals, Veneziano slipped into his usual inane commentary about them. "I don't like that all the animals have to stay in cages all the time."

Romano sighed. This discussion was exactly the same, _every single time_ they went to the zoo. He could almost have had both sides of the discussion himself. In order to please his little brother, though, he followed through with his usual rebuttal. "The cages are better now than they used to be, moron. A lot bigger, and the animals have more room to roam around. Not like the little boxes they used to be in."

_But they're still in cages_, he thought.

"But they're still in cages, Romano! How would you feel if you had to live in a cage?"

Well. That was a new line. "Sometimes I think that might be good. Nothing scary could get me."

"Ve, yes, but then what if your feeders forgot to bring your food? You would just sit in the cage and starve to death! Not good, not good at all."

"This is a meaningless thing to talk about," his brother countered. "We're not in cages; they are; that's just the way it is. I'm never going to be in a cage, nor are you. This discussion is still ridiculous, just like last time we had it."

"Sometimes I want to let all the animals out of the cages so they can roam free."

_Aha, now we're back on track, _Romano realized. "But then they'd just be milling around here eating each other. Easy prey. Until there were none left, or just the last one standing."

"I don't know about that. Wouldn't they run away?"

"Depends how hungry they were. Maybe they'd turn on _you_, and try to eat you." Romano sighed. He was really tired of this absurd discussion, even though it had probably been five years since the last time they'd had it.

"Ve! Look!" His little brother pointed up to something in the trees. "That's new."

They stopped and spared a few minutes to look up into the trees. It seemed there were people walking on tightropes stretched between platforms built high off the ground. "A rope walk! How fun!" Veneziano eventually said, after staring at it mindlessly for a few silent minutes. "Want to try it?"

"Chigi! Are you crazy? Why would I want to do that?" Romano scowled.

"Because it looks like fun?" his brother suggested.

"No, it isn't. It looks silly."

"Look, they have safety ropes to hold you up in case you lose your footing. You could totally fall off and not get hurt! Ve, that looks like so much fun, I want to do it."

"You want to do it, be my guest. I'm not going to do it."

"Fratello, you are _such a chicken_."

"So are you, usually," Romano snorted. "I'm actually kind of surprised you want to do this."

"But look! I'll be way up in the sky over the zoo. I will be able to see all the animals all over, all at once, from up above!"

"Yeah, and that will just make you upset again because they're in cages and you're not, idiot."

"Ve, Romano, you can be so harsh sometimes. I don't want _me_ to be _in_ a cage! I want them to be _out_ of the cages!"

"Whatever! Just – just go do the stupid rope-climbing thing, if that's what you want to do. I'll wait here. Maybe by the time you get back you will have forgotten this ludicrous discussion about the cages."

"I'll never forget that, as long as there are zoos in the world. Do you have the camera? Will you walk along underneath and take some pictures of me, up there, walking in the air over the zoo? I can show them to all our friends."

"Cheh, yes, all right, whatever! Just go do it!" Romano waved his brother away irritably.

After a few minutes he saw Veneziano ascend the starting ramp, rope clipped to his harness. The younger man turned to wave at Romano, who snapped a picture of him. As Veneziano continued to progress around the zoo, his brother followed, taking a picture every now and then.

When Veneziano passed over the cage holding the tigers, he looked down, screamed, lost his footing, and fell off the rope, suspended only by his safety harness. "Ve! Help! Help!" He struggled foolishly for a moment, still staring at the tigers and screaming.

Two of the tigers began circling underneath him, growling, and he managed to frantically pull himself up the safety rope and reposition himself on the walking rope, breathing heavily and staring at the tigers in fear. A zoo attendant came to help him, holding him securely while he calmed down. Romano was jittering nervously on the ground, having completely forgotten to take a picture of that.

He saw Veneziano exchange some words with the attendant, who then led him on to the next platform and helped him dismount. Apparently the tigers had frightened him so much that he'd given up on the rest of the rope walk. Romano hurried over to him.

"Are you all right, fratello?" he asked. "Not hurt? That was really scary!" He hugged his little brother.

Veneziano sighed, hugging him back. "Ve, Romano, let's go home. I think the animals are best left in their cages."

…

_The anagram was "Inane Man over Zoo."_


	7. England and America

**England/America.**

It was lunch break during a world meeting. "Hey, America, want to go get some chocolate?"

"Sure, why not. It's a good day for chocolate!" They walked down the crowded street towards the boutiques, peeking in the windows of various stores as they passed. It was a nice day…a good day for something festive like chocolate.

"It's always a good day for chocolate, wanker. Unless we're actually eating _American _chocolate."

"What are you talking about? American chocolate is world-renowned."

"Huh. World-renowned for being bad chocolate."

"All right, if you think American chocolate is so bad, tell me whose is better."

"Anybody's! Belgium's, Switzerland's, even the frog makes better chocolate than you do."

"Huh. You're still a jerk after all these years."

"Somehow it only seems to come out when I'm around you, you insufferable git."

"That is completely not true. You're a jerk with everyone."

England snorted, but didn't reply.

They finally walked into the candy store. This store had all kinds of candy, not just chocolate. "Want to get something not-chocolate, wanker?"

"No! We're here for chocolate, let's get chocolate."

"Fine. I'm picking out stuff for me. You can get whatever you want for you. I'm not sharing. Buy your own."

"Fine with me." America stalked off towards the counter, pushing his glasses up his nose.

The island nation wandered up to see what his former colony was choosing. There were no other customers in the store at the time.

"Peanut butter," America decided. "Lots of peanut butter. Some raisins, some chocolate-covered espresso beans."

"How much is 'some,' tosser? Be a little more clear for the man, please. A pound? Half a pound?"

"Half a pound of each, please," he told the clerk, who began to scoop up the appropriate candy and put it into individual paper bags. "Also a pound of white-chocolate-covered pretzels, half a pound of nonpareils" (he pronounced it wrong, and England snorted at him), "a pound of dark chocolate turtles, and half a pound of rum truffles."

"Bloody hell. I can't wait to see you eat all this. Anything else?"

"Yes, a quarter pound of chocolate-covered peanuts and a quarter pound of chocolate-covered cherries."

"Bollocks. All your teeth are going to fall out and you're going to get fat."

"Not me, Iggy. I'm heroically fit and trim." America struck a bodybuilder's pose in the middle of the candy store, laughing.

"We'll see," was the older man's enigmatic response, but he was laughing too.

"So what are you going to get?" America returned his gaze to the counter.

"Well, _if_ there's anything left when he's done bagging up your enormous order, I plan to get some of the rum truffles, of course, and chocolate-covered almonds. Not hazelnut, though."

"There are no more rum truffles," the clerk said apologetically, having overheard this.

"Blast it, America, you and your bloody sweet tooth! Sodding wanker. All right, I'll take a half a pound of caramel."

"Oh! I wanted some caramel, too!"

"There's only a quarter pound of caramel left." The clerk spoke in a hesitant voice.

"Forget it. You cleaned out the rum truffles. I get the caramel."

"Iggy, you're being a jerk again."

"I don't care! I love caramel and you can't have it!"

The two nations faced each other in the candy store, their tempers escalating.

"Damn it, Iggy! You're always trying to boss me around! I want the last of the caramel!"

"Listen, you moronic git, I am _not_ going to allow you to push me around over something so trivial! You have ten pounds of chocolate! You don't need the caramel!"

"You don't need it either, old man…you're getting a little paunchy yourself." America, whose arms were by now full of little paper bags, nudged his friend in the stomach with his elbow.

"_Paunchy?_" England's face turned bright red. "I'm going to kill you, you unspeakably rude child. Get out of my way. I'm getting the caramel and I don't care if I'm _paunchy_ or not! I deserve it just for having to put up with you!" He shoved America away from the counter. "Give me the caramel!" the island nation bellowed to the terrified clerk, who didn't move.

"Stop talking to the clerk!" America yelled. "I get the caramel!"

The clerk huddled behind the counter.

Both nations faced each other in the still-empty store, breathing heavily and scowling at one another. America's arms were full of the little paper bags of chocolate that the clerk had already bagged up. They were gently balanced so he wouldn't drop them. England had nothing in his hands at all.

"You know," he smiled maliciously, "if I pull just one of these bags out of your arms, it will disrupt the balance, and all the rest will tumble down onto the floor. You won't get _any_ chocolate."

"Drop dead, England!" America tried to back away, but he was already up against the wall.

The shorter man reached out and plucked a bag from America's arms, setting it on the countertop. His analysis had been correct. All the tiny bags that America was holding so precariously began to slip and tumble onto the floor, spilling candy everywhere. As America scrambled to catch them, England began laughing maniacally.

"I really hate you, I really, _really_ hate you!" America scurried around the store, trying to rescue his candy before someone stepped on it. "Don't step on this stuff!"

"You're a wanker, America. Do you think I want to make _more_ work for the clerk after we've gone?" But he kept cackling. Eventually he bent down to help America pick up the candy and put it into the store's trash can.

Meanwhile, Romano ducked into the store and bought the last of the caramel.

...

_The anagram was "A Caramel Ending." You don't know how hard I had to fight to keep this T-rated and not M, when I saw that. Well… maybe some of you know._


	8. Prussia and Canada

**Prussia/Canada.**

"Come on, Matthew, it's a rainy day, perfect for visiting my private museum. There's so much awesome Prussian military gear in there, it will astonish you."

"Oh, Gilbert, you know I'm not too interested in military things…but if it makes you happy, I'll go." He squeezed his bear forcefully, eliciting a little squeak.

"Kesesese! You'll like it. I can tell you all about my military history, so you can be proud of dating me."

"I'm already proud of dating you!" Matthew blushed.

"Good! Then you can get even prouder!" Gilbert grabbed an umbrella and led his boyfriend and the silent Kumajiro down the street to his private Prussian military museum. "Only Ludwig and I have keys to this place, and I made him promise never to come here without me. You're the first person I've taken in here since it was renovated."

"I – I feel honored."

They entered the dark building. When Gilbert flipped the lights on, Matthew was astonished to see the long lines of weapons, of armor, banners and other gear in the large, well-lit room.

"Gilbert! This is amazing!"

"Yes, it is an awesome testament to Prussia's military might. Look at it all!"

Matthew began dreamily wandering down the aisles behind Gilbert, staring at all the proofs of his boyfriend's past victories. "What's this?" he asked, pointing to an old, old banner that was unfurled in a glass case.

"That was the first banner the Teutonic Knights ever carried. Ah, those were good times…" He waxed eloquent for a while about the glory of his early days, getting a misty look in his crimson eyes. "But enough about that. Come on and let's look at the armor. Kesesese, I had such great armor."

He and Matthew stopped at the end of the row of cases containing Prussian armor. "Would you like to try some on? It will make you feel strong and powerful! Plus I know you'd look really good in armor."

The blond blushed, fidgeting. "I don't know, Gil…I've always been so uncomfortable with the idea of war…"

"But this isn't war! This is _history_!" The albino beamed so delightedly that Matthew reluctantly gave in.

"All right. If you pick out some armor for me, I'll try it on. Okay?" The bear in his arms began to whuffle a little, as with laughter, and Matthew squeezed a little tighter to shut him up.

"Yes! I knew you'd see things my way. Come along here, I have just the cutest one for you to try on."

"Uh…_cute_ armor?"

"Well, it's just regular armor; I meant it would look cute on you." He led his friend to the end of the row and unlocked a case.

"This armor looks – really _little,_ Gilbert. Like it's for a kid?"

"This was my armor, when I was a preteen! Isn't it sweet?"

But instead of being pleased at the sweetness of Gilbert's old armor, Matthew began to look a little annoyed. "You want me to dress up in your _preteen armor_? Not even grown-up armor?" He set Kumajiro down in anger, and the bear started laughing again.

"Oh, come on, you know my grown-up stuff would be too big for your petite little frame. Come on, sweetie, try on the helmet and cuirass, at least; you don't have to put on the whole suit." He pulled the battered leather cuirass out of the case.

Matthew sighed. He might as well get it over with. "This armor is weird, Gil. Why is it all multicolored like this?"

"It's not multicolored. Just black and white. It's just because it's old; some of the paint has worn off." The back piece was black, the front piece dirty white. Well, no wonder it was dirty; it was centuries old. There were pieces to cover the arms as well; these attached with buckles, and they were black. Gilbert helped his friend into the body pieces and buckled them on, then attached the arm pieces. "Here. Now put on the helmet."

Matthew lifted the helmet up and perused it first. "This helmet is weird, too. What were you thinking, when you had this made?" The helmet was dingy, but it was easy to see it had been white at one point too. The helmet had two black flaps on top.

"I don't know! It's just an old helmet. I think those were supposed to be wings, but they probably fell off during a skirmish somewhere."

"Wings on a helmet. Wow, Gil, you have had some interesting ideas in your time."

"All my ideas are awesome, you know that."

The helmet also had blackened rings around the eyeholes. "What happened here?" Matthew asked. "Somebody tried to burn your eyes out?"

"Nah, that was just because they used softer leather there, so it wouldn't hurt my eyes, and the paint flaked off more quickly. No biggie. Come on, put the helmet on. Prussian colors are so awesome. You're going to look fabulous."

Matthew put the helmet on. Kumajiro began laughing out loud.

"What's the matter with you, Kumakichi?" He sounded rather irritated – for Canada – under the aged helmet.

Gilbert looked at Kumajiro, and then at Matthew, and started laughing, too. For a few minutes neither he nor the bear could control themselves; Matthew simply stood there in the preteen armor, getting redder and angrier. He knew that if he tried to speak, the others wouldn't even be able to hear him, so he tried to calm down.

Finally both Gilbert and Kumajiro wheezed into silence. "What are you two laughing at? Honestly, Gil!"

Gilbert turned his friend to look in the mirror. Well, when Matthew got a good look at his reflection, wearing the old black-and-white leather armor, he started laughing, too.

"I look like a panda bear!" he giggled, and Gilbert gave him a big hug.

"My little panda warrior," he laughed, squeezing Matthew tightly.

…

_The anagram was "A Panda Cuirass."_

_And you know that Prussia is just the kind of awesome guy who would have his own private museum that people can only enter when he's with them. _


	9. England and Liechtenstein

**England/Liechtenstein.**

"Good morning, Liechtenstein! How are you today?"

"Fine, thank you, England. Are you well? Please come in. Switzerland is not here today."

"Oh, I came to see you, not Switzerland."

Liechtenstein was a little worried at that, but England had always been friendly to her before, so she thought perhaps everything would be all right. Switzerland had left her a gun for her protection, but she was afraid to use it. "What can I do for you? Would you like some tea?"

"Thank you; tea would be nice."

The young girl led her guest into the parlor, where he seated himself. He had been carrying a rectangular package which he set on the floor.

"Please let me make the tea and I'll be right back. Make yourself comfortable."

"Thank you, Liechtenstein."

She left him alone and went to the kitchen, where she brewed some tea from India and arranged a platter neatly with the tea things and a plate of Honiglebkuchen. While she waited for the water to boil, she wondered about England's magical friends, whom she had once met. Perhaps he brought her some news of them? She was indeed a little more nervous than she had let on.

When she brought the tray back into the parlor, England was still seated, leafing through a Fodor's guide to Austria. "Will you be traveling to Austria soon?" he asked politely, indicating the book.

"Oh, no, that was a gift from Austria, and Switzerland likes to keep it on the table to remind him of his friend. I know he pretends that he doesn't like Austria, but they are really quite close." She set the tray down and served the tea, taking a chair opposite the island nation.

"You and Switzerland always make such delicious tea," he offered. "I can always be assured of a higher quality of tea in your home than almost anywhere in the world."

Liechtenstein merely nodded her agreement and drank tea, keeping a slightly nervous eye on the blond man.

Eventually, after some formal chat, she worked up her nerve to ask him why he'd come. "Did you have special business with me, England?"

He cleared his throat. "In a manner of speaking, yes. Christmas season is coming up, and, well, my magical friends wished to be remembered to you."

"Oh, how delightful!" she cried out, setting down the teacup and clasping her hands. "How – in what way? I am always happy to hear they are thinking of me. I think of them quite often. Will they be coming to see me again?"

England looked a bit embarrassed. "I – I'm not quite certain whether that can be arranged again, Liechtenstein; I'm very sorry. Of course I will ask, but, as I mentioned to your brother before, it's not something that we should be repeating all the time."

Liechtenstein's face fell, but then she remembered she was the hostess and put on a brave face so England wouldn't realize how sad his words had made her. But then – he was magical too; perhaps he would be able to tell she was sad, even if she were smiling. She sighed.

"However – they did send you a little gift." He lifted the box and handed it to her.

"Thank you! Please thank your friends, too. Should I save it for Christmas morning?" The box was surprisingly heavy in her hands. It was bigger than a shoe box, but not by much.

"You may open it now. Then I'll be able to tell them whether you liked it or not." His smile was encouraging.

Liechtenstein slowly unwrapped the box, still a little nervous. But, she considered, if Flying Mint Bunny and the others had chosen this gift for her, it was bound to be a very nice one. She carefully laid the ribbon and wrapping paper on the table next to the tea tray and then slowly took the lid off the box.

Inside was a beautiful carved wooden box, like a jewelry box. She looked at England quizzically before turning her attention to the gift; he was smiling fondly at her, drinking his tea. The young girl put her hands inside the gift box and lifted the wooden box out carefully. She placed it on her lap and moved the gift box to the floor, then placed the wooden box on the table.

"It's a beautiful box, England," she breathed. "Is it a jewelry box?" She was quite perplexed, because a jewelry box was quite an inappropriate gift to receive from anyone other than family or a lover. She really hoped England was not thinking along those latter lines. Yes, it would be nice to spend more time with his magical friends, but not _that_ way.

"Open it up," he smiled, so she did.

The box had a roll-top lid. She lifted it up and peeked inside the wooden box. It appeared to be lined with steel, or some other silvery metal, and it was empty. She gave England another confused look.

"Speak your name into the box," he suggested. "Wait. Let me come watch."

She got nervous again as the blond moved to her side, but his attention was focused on the inside of the empty box.

"Go ahead," he encouraged her.

Feeling silly, she leaned over and stammered "Lie- Liechtenstein" in a rather hesitant tone.

Immediately, a holographic scene featuring the magical friends appeared inside the box, as if they were on a stage. Little images of Flying Mint Bunny, Tink, and Uni cavorted inside the box, waving up at Liechtenstein, whose face was blushing and rapt.

"Oh, England! This is wonderful!" She waved at the tiny figures. "A magic box! This is a wonderful gift. Thank you so much."

"It's from my friends, Liechtenstein. I'll pass the thanks along to them." He moved back to his chair, pleased with the success of the gift. "It's a special box, you see. The lining has spells in it. Every time you open the box, the figures will perform something different. They may dance, or recite a poem, or simply gambol about as they are doing now."

"They can _speak_?" she breathed. "Oh!"

"I hope you will enjoy it. There are more than a thousand different spells in the lining of the box. After you get through those thousand, they will begin to repeat."

"I certainly will enjoy it! Thank you so much."

"You're more than welcome, Liechtenstein. Now I must be going. Thank you for the tea and delicious cookies."

"Oh, please feel free to visit anytime, England," she offered, as she walked him to the door. "I'll tell Switzerland you were here."

"Thank you, please do. I'm sorry I missed him. Have a wonderful holiday season!"

"You too, England! Goodbye!"

Liechtenstein spent the entire rest of the day looking at her magical box.

…

_The anagram was "Enchanted Steel Lining."_

_Pairing by special request from Skadiyoko. _

_In my story "Love in the Modern World," Switzerland arranges a meeting between England's magical friends and Liechtenstein for her birthday. This seemed like a reasonable follow-up._


	10. Prussia and South Italy

**Prussia/South Italy.**

"I want to visit the Colosseum," Prussia demanded.

"Shut up. I'm not going there with you, albino potato; we'll be there all afternoon, and I'm bored with it. I go there all the time."

"I'm your _guest_, Romano. You have to do what I want. Take me to the Colosseum!"

"No."

Prussia thought about this. "All right. Take me to the Vatican. I want to see the Sistine Chapel."

"No."

"Are you going to be like this all day? Well, let's look at it this way. Where _are_ you willing to take me?"

"Cheh. I don't know."

"Take me out to dinner."

"Chigi! No! That would be too much like a date!"

"Kesesese!"

"Grr, bastard, you're making me angry. Stop being so pushy."

"I just want to do some touristy stuff! Come on. How about…a museum?"

"No."

"How about Castel Sant'Angelo? I want to see that bridge."

"Dammit, Prussia! Let's just walk around. Maybe we'll see something we both want to do."

"Fine, but I'm not letting you drag me into any cookware stores or, or…stuff like that."

"You're so fucking demanding."

"That's me. Fucking Demanding Prussia the Awesome."

Romano put his hands on his head and squeezed it as if he were trying to squeeze out all the knowledge of Prussia that he had. "Alias the Pushy Bastard."

"Pushy, Fucking Demanding, Prussia the Awesome."

Romano just rolled his eyes and walked on. Prussia scurried to catch up.

"Hey, where can we get good cake? I like cake, you know that."

"Yes, I know that. Fine. Do you want real cake, or tourist cake?"

"What the hell is tourist cake?"

"Dammit, you know what I mean. It's in the cafés where the tourists feel they have to go eat cake. There are better cake places to go, but the tourists don't know about them. But! If I take you to a real cake place, you have to absolutely _swear_ that you will not ever, _ever_ take the stupid potato bastard there. I do _not_ want my cafés tainted with his macho presence!"

"I can easily make – and keep – a promise like that, Romano. You have no faith in me, that's all. I'm Prussia the Great Promise Keeper."

"Alias Prussia the Fucking Annoying Idiot, is more like it."

"No, come on, a nickname like that is not awesome at all."

"Just like you. Not awesome at all. Come on, we'll go get some cake."

The two sort-of friends went to a tiny café in a back street. Seated outside in the warm afternoon sun, they watched local residents going about their business while they ate cake and drank espresso.

"This cake is fabulous."

"Told you, bastard."

"Why are you so harsh with me, Romano?"

"Because you're a pushy bastard, dammit! Argh. Forget it. Just enjoy your fabulous cake and then we'll go do something else, all right? Just – just focus on the cake."

"Kesesese! I'm happy to focus on the cake." The albino focused on his cake.

When he'd finished, the two of them meandered off in the general direction of the tourist district. "Do you really want to go to the Colosseum, albino potato?"

"Yes, please! I love touristy stuff, you know that. I haven't been there yet."

"What, _ever_? Well, you can't say you've toured Rome until you've been there, so…all right…let's go." Romano led him to the imposing structure and they entered.

For a while, they merely wandered around in silence, Prussia staring at the walls and architectural details, and his friend shuffling his feet along and trying not to be annoyed. Once Prussia felt he'd seen enough in silence, of course, he started asking Romano all kinds of questions about the building, its construction and history. The brunet tried to be polite as he answered.

They spent about two hours loafing around, discussing this and that, and Romano was beginning to feel more relaxed. The albino potato wasn't so bad when you got him thinking about something, instead of just babbling his stream-of-consciousness garbage as usual.

"What do you want to do now?" he asked, rather calmly, as they exited.

"Take me to one of Bernini's fountains. I love that man."

"Seriously? All right, pushy potato. Let's go."

So they went to see the Fontana del Tritone.

"Now what?"

"Show me the Catacombs."

"Ugh, no way, I'm sick of that place and it makes me sicker anyway, _and _it's getting to be night, which makes it creepier. No."

"The Pantheon?"

"Dammit! Don't you have to be going home soon?"

"Nope! Come on, I can stay here all night."

Romano stopped and turned his face away. Just what he needed. An all-night tourist jaunt of Rome, with the pushy albino potato. _Argh. _"No, no, no, no, and _no. _ I'm not going to squire you around Rome all night, showing you tourist shit! Pick one thing and we'll do it, and then I'm going home."

Prussia considered this. "Hmm, the…no…well, I wouldn't mind seeing…ah, not really, we could do that another day…but…"

"_Prussia!_ Just pick something without all this fucking _babbling_!"

"Sistine Chapel," the albino said immediately.

"You already asked about that and I already said no. Anyway, it's too late; by the time we got there, it'd be closed."

"You know, you're pushier than I am, Romano. Here we are, we had all afternoon together in Rome, and I wanted to do all this awesome stuff, and you managed to make it so all we did was eat cake and walk around the Colosseum. You're so selfish."

"Yeah, and you're so demanding. 'Take me here, take me there.' I never met _anybody_ as demanding as you, _ever._"

"Fine. Take me back to your house and I'll just leave. Maybe next time I'm here you can show me some stuff."

"Fine."

When they got back to Romano's house, Prussia got into his beat-up old car and prepared to head for home.

"Hey, bastard."

"What now?"

"Sorry. Come earlier next time and we can do some stuff."

"Kesesese~! All right! Prussia the Awesome will definitely do that!"

"Argh! Alias Prussia the Pushy Tourist!"

The albino drove off into the night, cackling, as Romano waved after him.

…

_The anagram was "Alias Pushy Tourist." _

_Why do I find these bickering arguments so much fun to write?_


	11. Poland and Switzerland

**Poland/Switzerland.**

"Like, hi, Swissy! Can I come see you today? I have a super-cool thing to show you that Liet and I made this week. It's beautiful, and I know you will love to see it. You know?"

Switzerland sighed. It was bad enough that Poland had referred to him as "Swissy," but now to plan a visit from the man? Well, he had nothing better to do today. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. "Yes, I don't mind if you want to come over, Poland. Just remember to _dress warmly_! It's cold here and if you wear – wear a – a _dress_" (here Switzerland could feel himself blushing, and ground his teeth) "your legs are going to freeze. All right? I'll see you soon."

"Totally! I'll see you in a bit. I'll bring some pączki!"

"That's fine. I have plenty of chocolate. I'll put the kettle on for tea."

Switzerland hung up the phone. He'd better warn Liechtenstein. She was always a little nervous around Poland.

"Thanks for the warning, Bruder," she agreed. "I'll stay in my room and play with my magic box."

This was another irritant in Switzerland's life. England had given her a magic box and whenever Switzerland looked into it, all he could see was an empty, steel-lined box! His little sister insisted there were moving pictures of the magical friends inside, but he couldn't see it. But rather than letting himself get upset about it, he merely waved a hand at Liechtenstein.

"Whatever you prefer, little sister. I'll come get you when Poland has left?"

"Yes, thank you, Bruder." She tripped off to her room and Switzerland went to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

When Poland arrived he was beaming, dressed in appropriate (although pink and sequined) clothing, with a little pink knitted hat with a bobble on top. "Hi, Swissy!" He handed the Alpine nation a box of pączki and they moved into the parlor, where he removed his hat and coat. "It's a beautiful day here. Well, it was a totally beautiful day in Poland, too, but I wanted to come show you this cool necklace." He sat on the sofa and fished around inside the neckline of his sweatshirt, pulling out a cubical glass pendant on a chain. "See?"

After hanging up his guest's gear, Switzerland sat and turned his attention to the necklace. Embedded in the glass was a tiny reptile! "It's a lizard? Why? I expected you'd wear a phoenix necklace." He sat beside his friend and poured the tea.

Poland picked up his cup and sipped. "Delicious tea, Swissy, as usual. Well, that's the interesting thing, you see. This is an actual lizard. He was, you know, roaming around my bedroom, and it totally freaked me out. I was afraid it would come after me. I jumped up and screamed and stood on the bed! But he was kind of slow, so Liet caught him in a glass jar. We were going to set him free, but we got distracted because it was baking day and we were eating our doughnuts…and the lizard, like, died in the glass jar while we were eating." He picked up a doughnut and began eating it calmly.

Switzerland was appalled, but his guest didn't seem to notice.

"So we decided to make him into a pendant for me! Isn't he sweet?" Poland continued. "I particularly like the pink silk cord we used to hang the pendant on."

Switzerland avoided discussing the sweetness (or not) of the dead entombed lizard and instead asked a technical question. "How did you get him into the glass? To cast it you'd need to set the kiln to at least 900 degrees, right? Organic things will burn up at those temperatures." He was genuinely interested in this, since his country had a rich tradition of glassworking.

"Oh, Swissy, it's not glass, it's just resin. You just mix two resiny goopy things together in a mold and then poke the lizard in, and let it sit, and it hardens into the mold shape. We used an ice cube tray."

"I certainly hope you're not going to use it for ice after this!" Switzerland blurted out.

"No way! It's totally skanky now. Liet tried washing it, but even though it looked clean, we still felt it was kind of grody. Maybe we'll just keep it and use it to make more necklaces!"

His host considered this. "Well…if you do…make sure you don't bring them to me! I don't want to wear a necklace with a dead lizard in it!"

Poland looked at Switzerland with wide, appealing eyes and a devilish smile. "Oh! Switzerland! Does this mean that if I made you some other kind of necklace, something pretty, you'd wear it? I didn't know you wore necklaces! That's so totally cool, you know. I'll pick a little Edelweiss on my way home and then Liet and I will make you a necklace with it later. Okay?"

Switzerland covered his face with his hands. "Please just finish your tea, Poland. I don't want to wear a necklace. I really don't."

"But Swissy!"

"Please? Just – just keep making pretty necklaces for yourself, Poland. They look so nice on you." He ground his teeth, but managed to get these galling words out.

"Oh. You are such a nice friend. I'll come up with some kind of gift for you, I promise."

"There's no need," Switzerland growled, still with his head in his hands.

Poland seemed to be ignoring this while he finished his tea. "May I still take an Edelweiss home? I bet Liet would like an Edelweiss necklace."

"Yes, that's perfectly fine. Take all the flowers you wish."

"Thanks, Switzerland! You, like, totally won't regret it. Liet will have the prettiest Swiss necklace ever."

"I…look forward to seeing it," the Alpine nation lied. Grr.

…

_The anagram was "Slow Lizard Pendant."_

_I have no canon evidence that Poland and Switzerland would be friends, but I have this idea that Swissy finds him less intolerable than he finds many of the other nations. So I think they might be kinda-sorta friends…every now and then._

_Swissy is talking Centigrade temps, of course. 1700 degrees Fahrenheit is the correct temp for casting glass in a kiln, although it can be done slightly lower if you hold the temperature for a longer time. _


	12. Hungary and Lithuania

**Hungary/Lithuania.**

Lithuania knocked at Austria's door. He was bringing something that the musical nation had requested, and although Lithuania hadn't given him advance warning of his visit, he knew the bespectacled man was eagerly waiting for the gift item.

Hungary answered the door. "Good morning, Lithuania! It's nice to see you. Please, come in." He stepped inside and looked around the elegant residence.

"I – I brought this for Austria," he offered, holding out the box.

"Thank you. I know he's been waiting for it. Let me put it in the kitchen, and then I have a favor to ask you."

Lithuania waited patiently in the living room for her to return.

"There we go," she said, bustling back in. "Now, Austria's not here today, so I wondered whether you would dance with me."

"M-me?" he stammered. "Wha – why?"

Hungary tapped her foot impatiently. "I want to learn this new dance that America is trying to teach. It's not a partner dance, but I want someone to learn it with me so I don't feel silly standing around trying it all by myself."

"How will you learn it? Is America here?"

"No, but he sent me an instructional DVD for it. I thought we could watch it together and then learn to do the dance?" Hungary gave the young man a very nice smile, and he felt his resolve crumbling, even though he did not like to dance.

"Well…I guess I don't mind. I can at least try it, right?" He smiled at her and she smiled sweetly, leading him by the hand into the large room where the TV and DVD player were set up.

He was now quite happy that Austria was not around today. He would have felt very awkward dancing with Hungary, if Austria were lurking around watching.

Hungary set up the DVD and turned it on. The disc was set up so that a single female instructor led the viewer through the dance moves and then at the end, a film of the authentic dance was shown by natives performing it. The instructor was dressed in a white t-shirt and black leggings.

Hungary stood attentively watching the video; Lithuania less so, but he didn't want to upset Hungary. It had been a very long time since he'd felt the severe kiss of the frying pan, and he didn't want to experience it again anytime soon. So he paid attention.

The instructor started them out slowly, with subtle movements of the arms. They practiced this for a while, laughing together.

"This is very funny! I don't even know what the whole dance is supposed to look like, so it will be fun to work through the whole disc and see how it all comes together."

"I agree," Lithuania said, surprisingly interested by now. "It's like a puzzle."

"Yes!" Hungary beamed at him. "A dance puzzle."

The instructor then led them through the airy swaying of the hips. Lithuania felt a bit silly at this point, but he continued to practice. Hungary seemed to have the hip swaying down pat in just a few minutes.

Next they were led through a section of just arm and hip movements, the two parts they'd learned so far. By the end of this practice section, both of them were feeling pretty confident. The music was slow and haunting; the movements were easy.

"I'm so glad you decided to stay and dance, Lithuania. Austria wouldn't even try this with me, I bet."

"I don't mind at all. I didn't have anything else to do today, and it's always fun to see native dances of other countries. Maybe we can do this dance next time we see America and show him how good we are!"

They laughed together about this as they finished working through the arm/hip practice session.

The next section involved stepping slowly from side to side. This was quite easy, until they tried to put the arm and hip movements with it, and both of them stumbled and laughed a lot while they tried to master this section. They ended up going back to the beginning of the chapter several times to work on it.

Eventually, Hungary felt she had the foot and hip movements down. Lithuania had the foot and arm movements all right, but he couldn't seem to get his hips to behave right. They stopped the disc and restarted at the beginning.

"I'm going to be ready for a nap when we're done!" he said, halfway through their second practice session.

"I'll make us some coffee and Sachertorte if you like, as a reward, if we can do it."

"Oh, that sounds like a very good idea. That will definitely motivate me!"

They ran through the whole disc again, and by the end of it, both of them felt quite confident in performing this native dance from America.

"Are we ready to watch the performance part? Do we want to dance along with them, or just watch?" Hungary asked.

"Let's try to do the dance with them? We can see how well we do."

"Oh, good. I was afraid you'd want to sit and watch. All right, here we go!"

The two nations got into position and Hungary advanced the video. However, both of them dropped their jaws and stood stock-still as they saw the lines of women in grass skirts and bikini tops begin to dance.

"What?" Lithuania yelped. "I spent all day learning a _girl's dance?_" Whoops. He'd better be quiet if he didn't want to get bashed.

But Hungary looked just as stunned. "Grass _skirts_? Oh, for crying out loud. I should have guessed America would send us something like this." She angrily switched off the television and turned to her guest. "Would you like that coffee and Sachertorte now?"

"Could – could I have something a little stronger, please?

…

_The anagram was "Airy, Haunting Hula."_

_I hope these two aren't too OOC. Pairing by special request from Maiya123._


	13. Denmark and Romano

**Denmark/Romano.**

Denmark had come to visit Romano's house. The two of them were sitting at the table in front of a pile of letters, drinking decaf.

"So what are all these letters?" the Dane asked idly. He didn't really care, but they _were_ all over the table.

"Uh."

"Uh, what? Love letters? There's a hell of a lot of them."

"Not love letters, you idiot." Romano blushed and ran his hand over his face. "These are, well, one of our Catholic newspapers has a special column. Like advice to the lovelorn, you know? Except it's for people wanting Catholic-specific advice. They write these letters, and Veneziano and I take turns answering them. The newspaper pretends that an actual monk is answering the letters. This month it's my turn."

"Huh. Religion really isn't a big thing at my place."

"You're kidding!"

"Nope. People say they're religious, but I can't imagine people writing letters for advice about religion. Can I read some? Or you could work on answering them while I'm here. I don't mind helping."

"Cheh, why not. Open one up."

Denmark grabbed the nearest envelope and opened it. "Huh, this guy" – he checked the signature – "yeah, this guy wants to know what color vestments are worn on the priest's birthday."

"What a dumb question. Just set that one aside, bastard."

"Why? What's dumb about it?"

"There's no rule about the color of his vestments! Not for his birthday. A priest's birthday has nothing to do with what vestments he wears. It depends on the Church calendar."

"Well, then, you should tell this guy that, in your response." Denmark thought this was entirely reasonable.

"Maybe. Set it aside, though. Pick another letter."

"All right." Denmark grabbed another letter, this one in a pink envelope. "Whoa!" he yelled, after opening it and laughing hysterically.

"What? What?" Romano was quite agitated.

"Uh…I don't think this lady really wants any Catholic advice," Den said, turning bright red and handing his friend a photograph that had fallen out.

Romano turned red as well and stuffed the picture back into the envelope. "Dammit. We get that kind of shit all the time. I don't understand what these women are thinking." He scrubbed his hands through his hair in irritation, but then smoothed it back into place. "Throw that one away and pick another letter." He sunk his face into his hands for a minute to try and regain his composure.

Denmark threw away the offending letter and picked another one, this one in a plain white business envelope. "Dear Roman Monk, is it permissible for a priest to drink?"

"Dammit, what is with all the stupid questions today? What's the date on that envelope?" Romano muttered.

"Well, this is weird. It's about six months old."

"Chigi! I knew it! I just knew it! Veneziano has been saving up all the dodgy and stupid letters for me! Dammit, I'm going to kill that idiot. I need some espresso, do you want some?"

"Sure, top me up." Denmark handed him the cup.

While Romano was in the kitchen, Den idly leafed through all the letters on the table, sorting them into two piles, those with a postmark older than two months, and those more recent. He pushed the old ones aside and then sorted the recent ones into two piles, those that looked questionable and those that looked legit. By the time he'd finished this, Romano had come back with their espresso.

"I don't think you can blame this on your brother," Denmark offered. "I mean, he wouldn't know what was in the envelope until he opened them, and those envelopes hadn't been opened."

"Cheh, well, whatever. Where did all the other letters go?" He sat to drink his espresso.

Denmark explained how he had sorted the letters. "Do you have to address every single one? That would really take a lot of time…and it would kind of explain why Veneziano is trying to palm off all these extra letters on you, if he's busy."

"He's not busy, the idiot, he just wants to slack off. Thanks for sorting them, bastard. Give me another letter."

Den opened a sealed envelope and leaned back to drink some espresso while he read. "Huh. This guy actually has a legitimate question. He wants to understand why monks have to give up sex."

"Dammit. Everybody's always writing in about sex in the Church. Throw it away."

"You're too picky, Romano. I'd like to know some of these answers myself."

The Italian narrowed his eyes. "You're serious? I thought you weren't interested in religion?"

"Well, no…let's say I'm _not too religious_? I'm always interested in learning new things, though."

"I'm not going to sit here and teach you about Catholicism, dammit. You can look that kind of stuff up on the internet. In fact, most of these questions you can look up on the internet. In _fact_," he sputtered, getting increasingly angrier, "I don't even know why we still have this dumb column in the newspaper, because _all_ of these letters can probably be answered on the internet!"

Denmark snorted his espresso. "Certainly the lady in the photograph could get more satisfaction on the internet." Both of them laughed about this.

"All right, let's try one more letter and see what we get." Romano grabbed one from the pile. "'Dear Roman Monk, please send my best wishes to the Pope.' That's it? Wow. My brother has a lot to answer for."

"Hey, just seal up all the stupid ones again and give them back to him. It would be easy to do with a glue stick."

Then both of them looked at each other as they realized how Veneziano had managed to dupe his older brother.

_"Chigi!"_

…

_The anagram was "Dear Roman Monk." _

_Yeah, well, I find Prussia, Iggy and Romano easiest to write, since I keep writing about them in all my other stories. Sorry. I'll do my best to branch out a little in future._


	14. England and Prussia

**England/Prussia.**

"Look, wanker, I just need to get some curtains, all right? I know we said we'd go drinking, but I need to get some curtains for my kitchen."

"I can't believe you don't have curtains in the kitchen already, Arthur. I mean, how long have you lived in that townhouse?"

"That's not the point. My curtains are sheers, and I need to get opaque curtains."

"What for? Too many people staring in the window?"

"Shut it, Gilbert. Never mind why. Let's go to the curtain shop, I'll get what I need, and then we can go drink."

"Fine with me. Whatever you need. As long as we get some quality drinking done! Kesesese!"

It was a warm day. Gilbert and Arthur were both wearing white t-shirts and jeans, wandering around London in the afternoon. Arthur led his friend to the drapery store and they went immediately to the section with opaque curtains.

"There sure are a lot of drapes in here!"

"Wanker. It's a _drapery shop._ What do you expect?"

Gilbert ignored this and pulled a dark blue sample off the rack, opening it fully and wrapping it around himself like a toga. "How do I look?"

"Like a git."

"Aw, Arthur, that is so unawesome of you. You know I look good." He put it back and tried again with a pink one.

"Still a git." Arthur kept looking through the racks, trying to ignore the cackling albino, who continued to wrap himself in various draperies.

"Ooh! Iggy! Look at this one!" Arthur tore himself away from the racks of curtains in order to reprimand Gilbert for using that hated nickname, but he was floored by what he saw. Gilbert had taken a sheer, flesh-colored panel and wrapped it around himself tightly, giving him the look of a classical statue. The albino was even striking a classical pose, one arm in the air, the other holding the drape shut behind him for maximum visual impact.

"You – bloody hell, Gilbert, you're going to get _arrested_! Put the drape back on the shelf!"

"Arthur, you are so uptight. Sour old man. I look so good this way. Here, how about this?"

Arthur stood stunned as Gilbert peeled off his shirt – _in a retail shop!_ – and then wrapped the sheer drape around his waist like a skirt. The Brit couldn't even react; he just stood there with his jaw gaping for a moment.

"Gilbert!" he finally managed. "Put your shirt back on, you tosser! You _are_ going to get arrested!" He scooted over and flung the albino's discarded shirt at him. "Put the damn drape back on the rack and get dressed!"

"Aw, you really are such a party pooper." Gilbert did as he was told, pouting as he refolded the sheer curtain and put it back on the rack.

Satisfied that his friend was under control again, Arthur turned his attention to the silk draperies instead. These were in the back corner of the shop. The charmeuse fabrics were particularly nice – they were opaque, but had a soft, sueded feel, and a beautiful flowing effect. Arthur absentmindedly took a black one off the rack and unfolded it. Without really considering what he was doing, he wrapped it around himself like a toga, just like Gilbert had done. Ah, the silk was very sensual. He ran his hands over it a few times before deciding that black wasn't really the right color for his kitchen.

Refolding it neatly, he put it back and looked through the rack for a better color. Yes, he was almost certain that the soft charmeuse drapes would be the nicest ones to add privacy to his kitchen. Arthur found a peach-colored one. Hmm, maybe this color would be too sheer. He opened the package and wrapped it around himself again, still not really paying attention to what he was doing. He stroked the fabric again, admiring the paleness of the peach color.

"_Arthur!_" Gilbert yelled. "You're just as bad!"

Arthur reddened as he realized what he'd been doing, and hastily folded the peach curtain back into its package.

But by now Gilbert had discovered the silk draperies in this secluded corner as well, and he began stroking the opened curtains with his eyes closed and lips slightly parted. "Oh, Arthur. You know, these would make awesome sheets."

Arthur stamped his foot. "Gilbert, get away from the curtains _now._ Now!" He yanked Gilbert away from the display and several packages of silk drapes fell onto the floor. He and Gilbert knelt down to pick them up.

"Seriously, Arthur, wouldn't these make excellent sheets? Imagine slipping in between sheets like this every night." Gilbert took an opened peach curtain and draped it around the two of them as they knelt on the floor, as if they were cuddled under a blanket together.

"You wanker! Stop that!" Arthur reddened again…but the drapery felt really nice. He allowed himself to be distracted a bit and caressed it while Gilbert grinned inanely at him. "But…yeah…these would make great sheets…" His voice faded away as he stroked the curtain a little more, musing.

Just then a clerk came around the edge of the rack and stopped in shock as she saw the two nations cuddled close under the sheer silk drape. "Excuse me, sirs!"

Arthur jumped, but Gilbert merely flashed the clerk a winning albino smile. "Yes?" he asked, as Arthur scrambled to his feet and began to put away the dropped packages. Gilbert stood lazily and extended a hand to the clerk, smiling sensually at her, still draped in the curtain.

"Uh – nothing," she stammered, blushing, and turned to flee from this secluded corner of the shop.

"Kesesese! We need to shop together more often, Arthur!"

"Shut it, you wanker. Let's get out of here."

…

_The anagram was "Sensual Draping."_

_Yes, right after I said I'd stop using these guys, I post another chapter with them. Well, what can I say? When I saw "Sensual Draping" in the anagram list I just had to write it._


	15. Hungary and Liechtenstein

**Hungary/Liechtenstein.**

"I'm glad you're here, Hungary. I need some help with a project, and Switzerland won't help because he thinks it's stupid."

"What kind of a project? And really, you don't need to worry about him at all. Some men just have no concept of the proper way to go about things."

"I'm not too worried about Switzerland. He has a lot on his mind. He's so very attentive to his work."

Hungary nodded. "Yes, we all do know that about him. So what's the project?"

Liechtenstein twisted her fingers together. Suddenly her idea _did _seem a bit stupid. But she decided to mention it anyway. Perhaps Hungary could help her figure out whether it was a bad or a good idea. "I want to design a new coat of arms for my country."

Hungary beamed. "That's a wonderful idea! I love designing things like that. Do you have any ideas? We should sit down with some paper and pencils so we could sketch out the design."

Liechtenstein smiled and led her friend to the kitchen, where the art supplies were kept. "I was thinking something with big cats," she explained. "I love big cats, like tigers or lions."

Hungary pursed her lips, thinking. "But there are no big cats native to your country, are there?" The girls each took a pencil and some paper to sketch out some ideas. "You should do something that's indigenous to your country, something that symbolizes it."

"But I don't want to! I want big cats. And besides, Hungary, you know Switzerland is not _really_ going to let me change the emblem of the country. This is more like an artistic exercise, I guess."

The dark-haired girl thought about this. "Well, then, if it's just going to be a design to please you, like a secret emblem, then yes, you could certainly use big cats. What kind do you like best?"

"I don't even really know of any other than tigers and lions. Maybe we should look on the internet?"

"Okay." They went to Liechtenstein's small laptop and began searching sites for pictures of appealing big cats.

"How about lynxes?"

"I'm not so sure about those tufty ears," Liechtenstein considered. "It would be hard to draw."

"True. Well, there are ocelots. They're really cute. They really are like big kitty cats." Hungary pulled up a page with pictures of ocelots on it.

"Oh! They really are cute! But look at all those fancy spots. Again, this would be hard to draw. I want to have a whole bunch of them together in a big design so that would be really difficult."

"Yes, then tigers are going to be difficult, too, with all those stripes. How about panthers? They're solid black. Easy to draw and color in?"

"This is why I'm having trouble! Panthers are so boring, Hungary. All that plain black. Lions are not much better."

Hungary sat and thought for a moment. "Well, how about a spotted cat where the spots aren't quite as regular as the ocelot? Leopard, for example, or cheetah? You could just draw the spots however you wanted them."

Liechtenstein looked up both animals on the internet. "Hm. Yes, either one of these looks all right, because I could just put the spots any way I felt like it."

"Well, which would you prefer to use?"

"That's a difficult choice. They look very similar and they both have seven letters in the name. Maybe I should try drawing one of each and see which is easier to draw?" They returned to the kitchen table and picked up their pencils.

"Good idea. I'll try too. How many did you want to put on the secret emblem?"

"I was thinking about ninety."

"_Ninety?_" Hungary jumped out of her chair in amazement. "Just how big is this emblem going to be?"

"Well, I don't know! It was just an idea. Ninety is my lucky number." She frowned a little and began to sketch a cheetah.

Hungary sat back down. "If you really try to put ninety big cats on a piece of paper that size, you're only going to be able to put two or three dots on them anyway, so it really shouldn't matter."

"Well, then I'll pick cheetahs, because I like the name better. 'Leopard' sounds too much like 'leper.'" She continued sketching.

"Yes, but 'cheetah' sounds too much like 'cheater'!" Hungary argued. Liechtenstein didn't answer, so Hungary put her efforts to drawing forty-five cheetahs for her friend.

"I wish the cheetah _was_ the national symbol of my country," Liechtenstein eventually sighed, dreamily, laying down her pencil. "They're so elegant. We could hang the banner up above the prince's throne, showing that the rule of the country was supported by the ninety cheetahs."

Hungary was beginning to get a little worried about her friend. Yes, the girl was young, but this was…strange? She set her pencil down and looked at Liechtenstein. "Where did you get this idea of the ninety cheetahs? Did it come to you in a dream?" she asked. Maybe that would explain the strange fixation. A lot of nations had dreams like that, which they pursued.

"No. I just wanted to do this and then Switzerland was being – well, he's such a good big brother, but..."

Hungary realized there was an issue there, but she knew Liechtenstein would never bad-mouth Switzerland to anyone, so she didn't pursue it.

"Let's finish the drawing. Maybe when he comes home he'll like it. He might let you have a banner made for your room, at least." They began drawing again.

"I'm going to put crowns on all the cheetah heads to show that they're my new ruling symbol," the younger girl eventually announced. Hungary didn't respond.

After another hour of intent work, both girls set down their pencils. "There! I did forty-five cheetahs with crowns for you, Liechtenstein. Did I do a good enough job?" Hungary was a little worried. She wasn't known for her artistic skills.

"They look very nice! Look at mine." Liechtenstein showed her forty-five cheetahs to Hungary and they looked similar enough that together they made a nice little paper banner of ninety crowned cheetahs.

"Beautiful," Hungary pronounced. "I have to go now, but let me know if Switzerland allows you to make a banner of it. I'd like to see it when it's all done." She hugged the younger girl goodbye. "I always have fun visiting you, Liechtenstein! Have a great afternoon!" She slipped out the front door and Liechtenstein turned back to look at her drawing of ninety ruling cheetahs.

…

_Yes, the anagram was "Ninety Ruling Cheetahs."_

_Again, no idea whether Hungary and Liechtenstein would be friends, but since Hungary is friends with Austria, and Austria with Switzerland, I'm guessing these two would at least hang out once in a while. When the men are driving Hungary nuts._


	16. Canada and Prussia

**Prussia/Canada.**

(Again.)

...

"Gilbert, I have a favor to ask you."

"Anything, little one. Anything at all. The awesome me is feeling particularly generous today. What would you like?"

"I have never been to a real sauna, and I was – was wondering if you'd take me to a sauna today."

"Matthew Williams! You dirty-minded little Canadian boy! Kesesese!" Gilbert beamed at him.

"No, no, no, that is absolutely _not_ what I meant, Gil! I mean, just to see what it's like to use a sauna. The way a sauna's _supposed_ to be used."

Gilbert considered this. "All right, let me see if there's a sauna around here, and we can certainly go…so you can see just what it's like to use a sauna the proper way." He checked the phone book for gyms or other places that might have saunas and found one a few miles away.

"Would you like to walk there or take the bus?"

"Oh, it's a nice day; let's walk, since I don't have Kumayami with me today."

"That's fine. Come on, let's go!"

"Er – don't we need to take something? Bathing suits or whatever?" Matthew turned red.

"Aw, you know – well, maybe you don't know – you use a sauna naked. The gym will have towels for us to wrap around ourselves, but you don't go in a bathing suit." Gilbert waggled his eyebrows.

"Fine." Matthew blushed again, and they left the house.

…

When they reached the gym the owners were happy to let them use the sauna, since it was a relatively slow day. Matthew paid the fee and they received a pile of four towels and two little white caps in exchange.

"What are the caps for?" Gilbert asked. He'd visited countless saunas in his lifetime and had never been given a little cap before.

"These are to protect your hair from the dryness of the sauna," the owner explained. "We have been receiving a lot of complaints that the sauna air is too arid, but I'm sure you're aware that you can't add humidity to a sauna. Otherwise it just becomes a steam room. So please wear the caps and enjoy the sauna."

They thanked the man and proceeded to the empty locker room, where Gilbert stripped with glee, right in the middle of the room, laughing maniacally, and Matthew went and hid behind a doorway to take his clothes off. When he came out from behind the doorway, with the towel around him and the silly little cap on his head, Gilbert was posing in front of the long mirror like a bodybuilder, the towel tucked around his waist.

"Damn, I'm awesome," he said, flexing his biceps.

"Yes, you are, Gil," Matthew said, sneaking up behind him and poking him in the bicep.

The albino met his eyes in the mirror. "Take that stupid cap off," he said irritably.

"But what about my hair? I don't want to have dried-out hair from being in an arid sauna!"

"Matthew, my dearest, the short amount of time we spend in the sauna is not going to damage your hair. Take off the cap!" Gilbert reached out to yank the cap off his friend's head, but Matthew danced backwards out of reach. Gilbert's towel fell off, and as he scrambled to pick it up, Matthew began blushing again.

"I'm not taking off the cap, Gil, and you should put yours on!"

"No, no, and _no_. It would look totally ridiculous on me." He managed to secure his towel around his waist again and tried to pull the cap off Matthew's head again.

The blond backed away again. "Gilbert! Put on the cap!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"No! Damn it, no. It's not worth it for the half hour we'll be in there. If anybody else is in the sauna and sees me looking like that, I'd be humiliated. Also, you should take your glasses off. The heat of the sauna isn't good for them."

Matthew blushed again, having forgotten about that, and put the glasses into his locker. "Look, Gil, if your beautiful white hair gets fried in the sauna, it's not going to look very nice afterwards, is it? An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure."

"No."

"But Gilbert…if your hair _does _get fried in the arid sauna, then it won't feel very nice for me to run my fingers through, either, will it?"

Gilbert stopped in shock. Having Matthew run his elegant fingers through the awesome white hair was one of Gilbert's chief joys in life. If this sauna was liable to fry his hair that much…to the point where his boyfriend wouldn't want to do that…then maybe he had a point. "All right, you win," he said, picking up the silly cap and putting it on. "I feel like an idiot."

"You look really cute, though," Matthew offered, smiling at him. "Besides, what are the chances that we'll run into anybody we know at the sauna here? Come on, even if there's somebody in there, you'll never see them again."

"I look like an imbecile! Grr, let's go get in the sauna. If I'm lucky, it will be completely _empty_ except for us."

They walked together to the sauna, Gilbert trying to hide behind the doors and potted palms like a ninja. They didn't encounter a single soul on the way to the sauna area.

When they got there, it was clear why this hallway was deserted. There was a large "Out of Order" sign on the sauna door.

Gilbert immediately ripped the silly cap off his head and flung it on the floor in disgust. "What an idiot that desk clerk was! Why didn't he remember it was out of order?"

Matthew sighed. "Put the cap on, Gilbert. _This _sauna is still operative." He pointed to the next door.

"Oh." Gilbert – who had actually been rather relieved to see the "Out of Order" sign – picked up the silly cap and put it back on his head. Matthew opened the door to the sauna.

They walked into the dim little room and could see there were several men in there already. Gilbert shut the door behind them, growling under his breath.

"Mattie! What are you doing here, bro? And Gilbert! Nice caps!"

"_Oui, tres chic_."

"Wankers." Snort.

"Dammit, this sauna is too full now, bastards."

"Ve, I agree!"

"Moi moi!"

Gilbert sank his head into his hands, ripped off the cap, and turned and fled from the sauna.

* * *

><p><em>The anagram was "Arid Sauna Caps." I had to change the names around for the chapter title because I can't have 2 chapters with the same name.<em>

_Whovianstudent specifically requested "Prussia and Canada madness." I hope this is mad enough! Their names don't play well with the anagram thing. If I get another request for them I'll have to go with their human names._

_If you have a request please send it my way. I will probably have a hard time with any of the Asian nations (except Japan and maybe China), but I'll do my best. _


	17. Prussia and America

_Prussia is taking over this fic! I swear to you: after this chapter I will do at least the next five chapters without using him. But I got a pretty awesome anagram for these two that had to be used._

…

**Prussia/America.**

"Hey, _Prussia!_ It's awesome to see you, man. What are you doing here? I know you don't have to come to these meetings."

"Just wanted to see what Japan's place is really like. West said he didn't mind me coming along, so, I'm rooming with him this time. Veneziano just had to take a rain check." He cackled a little, patting America on the shoulder. "We should go out drinking after the meeting."

"No, no, I have a way better idea, dude. There's this new place downtown Japan was telling me about. It's like a convention center where people go to do dress-up – you know, cosplay – but also role-playing, so you can act out a story! There are hundreds of people there at any given time, he told me. The building is divided into themed floors, so no matter what you dress up as, there is always some setting where you can act in a story. It sounded so fun, but nobody else wanted to go." America pouted and Prussia laughed, patting him on the shoulder again.

"I could deal with that! I love to dress up. I'll dress up like an awesome Teutonic Knight!"

America looked at him in irritation. "That's just stupid, Prussia. You should dress up as something you aren't, or never were. Like a Native American. Or a Japanese guy."

"Hey! That's a great idea! Let's both dress up as samurais and act out some kind of samurai story together!"

"You do have some awesome ideas, Prussia, I'll grant you that. But the plural of 'samurai' is just 'samurai,' not 'samurais.'"

"Kesesese, whatever."

"Okay! Meet me here after the meeting, all right? We can grab a quick bite to eat and then go over there. I'll get the information from Japan. This is going to be so cool."

"Deal."

They split up to seat themselves at the meeting.

…

After their quick dinner they proceeded to the new location, armed with plenty of cash, confidence, and instructions from Japan. There were plenty of samurai costumes and they hastily donned them.

"As expected." Prussia admired himself in the mirror.

"As expected what, dude?"

"I make an awesome samurai."

"Yeah, yeah. Not as awesome as I do." America struck a heroic pose in front of the mirror.

"Samurais didn't stand around like bodybuilders! Kesesese!"

"Duh, Prussia, I already told you the plural is just 'samurai'! Not 'samurais.' Sometimes I wonder just how vacant that brain of yours is." America tried various poses that might be more authentic for a samurai, and Prussia just laughed at him.

Eventually he got tired of watching the blond pose and asked, "Are we going out there to role-play or are we just going to stand around and admire ourselves all night?"

"Well, we're certainly admire-worthy, aren't we? Come on, let's haul that albino samurai ass out there and wow the other customers."

"Kesesese~!"

…

"So what kind of role-play are we going to do?"

"I don't know, America! This was your idea. You think of something."

"Huh. All right, let's be samurai stalking a client we need to kill."

"What? That's about the dumbest thing I ever heard. It's _ninjas_ who do that."

"Ninja."

"That's what I said."

"No, dude, I mean, the plural of ninja is 'ninja.' Not 'ninjas.'

"When the hell did you turn into a grammar freak? You've been hanging around Arthur too much recently."

"Pfft. No. I'm just trying to be honorable with Japan's culture. Come on, let's think of a role-play."

They stood in thought for a moment. "All right, here. We are two noble samurai brothers."

America interrupted. "All samurai were noble."

"Shut up and let me finish! We are two noble samurai brothers, who are…seeking a…mystical cure, for…our sour older brother Arthur…who has a disease that…makes him talk like a stuffy old man!"

America snorted. "Yeah, right. What a spacy idea."

"Well, then, you come up with something!"

"Yeah, fine. Give me a minute." They thought about this. "Okay! Got one. I'm the heroic samurai and you are my younger samurai brother, and we're out seeking a mystical cure for your albino-ness!"

Prussia punched him in the shoulder; the samurai costume meant America didn't take much damage. "Stupid as well. How about…we just wander around, being noble samurai together, and see what occurs to us?"

"Also stupid," America scoffed. "What if we just end up walking around and arguing all night?"

"Well, we're both very good at arguing, aren't we? At least we'd have fun with that, while looking like awesome samurais!"

"'_Samurai._' Honestly, Prussia, your brain is like a vacuum sometimes."

"Huh. I've heard about some of your spacy ideas. You're not the sharpest knife in the shed, either."

"The 'sharpest knife in the shed'? Wow. You come up with some really dopey phrases."

"Hey, I heard about what happened with that stupid canapé jar! You're an idiot!"

"Shut up, you albino bozo!"

The two samurai stood in the middle of the hallway, anger increasing, glaring at each other.

Then: "Kesesese. Maybe we should just be wandering, bickering, vacuous samurai_, _note I didn't say _samurais,_ who are looking for a new quest."

"Sounds good to me. Let's go."

They wandered off, speaking of this and that, and easily succeeded at being bickering, vacuous samurai.

…

_The anagram was "Spacier Samurai."_


	18. France and Holy Rome

**France/Holy Rome.**

"It's coming up to Christmastime," France said cheekily to Holy Rome. "Are you feeling holy? Are you behaving yourself?"

"Shut up, you interfering freak."

"Holy Rome! I was only asking a question. Why must you be so ornery with me?"

Holy Rome groaned. "You infuriate me sometimes, France. But, to answer your question, I am behaving myself; I am doing good deeds, trying to be nice, and trying to be especially nice to Italy so that we can join together to become the greatest empire in the world." He smirked at the long-haired nation. "I notice nobody's trying to join together with _you."_

"How silly you are, _mon ami_," France replied. "No nation can be great that doesn't include France, and I refuse to amalgamate with _you_. You and your silly unfashionable hat."

"You know, France, you may be more fashionable than I am, but you are definitely less macho."

France burst out laughing. "You? Macho? Holy Rome, you're a tiny little squirt!" France did indeed have several inches of height advantage over the other nation. "You're like a pixie, one of _Angleterre's_ friends, or even an elf! Yes. Since we are approaching Christmastime, you must be an elf. A very crabby, unfashionable elf, but an elf nonetheless." He kept laughing, to the point where he had to sit on the sofa.

"You may call me what you like; your insults will have no effect on me."

"_Oui_, they will, I know. You will sulk later because I called you an elf. Then you will be ornery to little Italy and things will not go so well, will they, macho little brother?"

"What will it take for you to go away, you cloak-clad irritant? Go away! I have to do my exercises."

France just laughed harder. "_You_ do exercises? This I must see, Holy Rome. Show me what kind of exercises you do."

"I don't want to."

"Cranky pants. Come on, show me how you got to be so…_macho." _ France started laughing again and Holy Rome turned bright red.

"Do I have to call out my soldiers? Get out of here!"

"Oh, Holy Rome, please don't send me away; I haven't had this much fun in a long time. Come on, little elf. Show me your exercises."

Holy Rome sighed. Apparently the only way he'd get rid of his irritating brother was to show him his strengthening exercises. "Yes, all right. Come outside where there is more room."

When they got into the yard, Holy Rome took off his hat and his black cloak, laying them carefully on the grass. "I'll only do this if you do them with me," he grumbled.

"I'm willing to do it. I love taking my clothes off."

"Don't take off all your clothes, France. Just your ridiculous cloak."

"How can you say my cloak is ridiculous, when you wear a cloak also? You make no sense at all, crabby boy."

"My cloak is a fine, serviceable black. Yours is just silly and showy."

"But attractive. You must grant me that."

"Attractive, _if_ you want to look like a girl."

But instead of angering France, this comment just made him laugh. "I don't mind looking like a girl. It's what's inside that counts. And inside, my young friend, you are ornery, and no amount of serviceable black clothing is going to change that."

"Shut up! Do you want to see these exercises or not? Take the cloak off!"

France put his cloak on the ground and they stood facing each other. Holy Rome was still extremely irritated.

"First I do jumping jacks." Holy Rome's little body began leaping into the air as he did some jumping jacks. France followed suit; being taller, the activity was a little easier for him, and he looked a little less silly while doing it.

"How many do you do?" he asked idly, while flapping about.

"One hundred," Holy Rome wheezed.

"That's fine. I can do one hundred." They finished the one hundred jumping jacks in silence.

Holy Rome bent over to catch his breath. "Those are always the hardest for me, so I do them first."

France smiled at him. "_Tr__è__s _macho, little one. What else?"

"Just can the commentary, France! Either do the exercises or _leave_."

"All right, all right. What's the next exercise?"

"Next I do toe-touches." Holy Rome struggled to touch his toes.

France did a few toe touches but didn't keep up with the smaller nation. "How many?"

"Just fifty." Holy Rome struggled on, panting and flexing as he touched his little toes. "There." He stood up straight and looked at France with a scowl. "Did you do fifty toe-touches?"

"No, little elf, I only did a few. I don't need exercises! _Sacre bleu_, I'm beautiful without them."

Holy Rome rolled his eyes. "Well, there is only one more exercise. That is running."

"_Oui_? Where do you run to?"

"Oh, wherever I feel like. Most days I run towards the border and see how long I can run without stopping. Are you going to run with me? Huh, maybe I can get away from you!"

"No deal, Holy Rome! I'll run with you!" France bent down to get a good start. "Which direction?"

Holy Rome pointed into the distance. "That way. Ready? Set? Go!" He and France ran off.

Because of France's longer stride, he easily outpaced the little nation, laughing with glee, and soon Holy Rome could no longer see his irritating brother. He stopped running and dusted his hands off.

"Good riddance, you bossy irritant." He laughed maniacally and headed back home.

…

_The anagram was "Ornery Macho Elf."_

_The image of Holy Rome doing jumping jacks is just too cute._


	19. England and Romano

**England/Romano.**

"You're a moron."

"You say that every damn day, Romano. What did I do this time?"

"Why don't you ever have coffee in the house? You know I hate tea. I'm never coming to visit you again if you don't start shaping up with the coffee."

"Bollocks. If that's all you're worried about, let's go out and get a coffeemaker! At least it ought to stop you calling me a moron every half hour."

"Bastard, I don't do it _every half hour._"

England snorted. "You might as well. If it's not 'moron,' it's either 'bastard' or 'idiot.' I wish you'd come up with something a little more…affectionate…to call me." He blushed.

"Dammit, I call everybody a bastard, or a moron, or an idiot. It's not really anything personal."

"Well, that's what I mean! It's so _impersonal._ I want you to either call me England, or Arthur, or come up with some name that is just for you to call me."

"I'm not going to call you Arthur because I don't want you calling me Lovino."

"Fair enough, git."

Romano growled. "How can you get on me for calling you 'bastard' when you're always calling me a git or a wanker? Dammit."

"This is a stupid discussion."

"Like so many of our discussions."

There was a bit of a tense silence.

"Well?" England finally asked.

"Well what?"

"Are we going out to get a coffeemaker…_git_?"

"Cheh, yes, whatever…_moron_." They headed out to the shops.

…

"What kind of coffeemaker should I get?"

"How should I know, darling?"

"_Darling?" _England stopped in his tracks.

"Well, you wanted to hear something I'm never going to call anyone else. I can guarantee you will _never_ hear me call anybody else 'darling.'"

"But, that's a bit too…I don't know. Keep working on it."

"Okay, bastard."

"Huh. I knew you couldn't do it."

"Listen, if you expect me to do this, stop yelling about it. I'll…see what I can do."

"I wasn't yelling! But, whatever. You just keep experimenting, wanker, and if you come up with a good one, I'll let you know."

"Whatever you say, honey." Romano accompanied this one with an evil smirk.

A resolute silence from the island nation.

"There's a big appliance shop up here," England eventually said.

"Well, we should go in and look at the coffeemakers, then."

"Fine, let's go in." They went into the appliance store; England led his friend to the kitchen appliances section. "Here. Why don't you look at the coffeemakers and see what kind you like, and there's something I need to check on. I'll buy you whatever coffeemaker you want, just pick one out."

"Fine. I'll meet you here."

England scooted off, leaving Romano to look at the coffeemakers and trying to think of another nickname to goad him with.

When the blond returned, he kept his hand in his pocket. "Did you find a good coffeemaker, Romano?"

"Well…_honeybunch…"_ (here he looked for a reaction, but didn't get one), "I saw three different ones that might work."

"Show me…_lover boy._"

At this, Romano raised his eyebrows. So England was upping the ante, was he? "This one, dearest, this one is just a plain coffeemaker. Just makes drip coffee."

"Hmm, well, what does that mean? I mean, if you don't want drip coffee…sweetheart…what do you want? What other kind of coffee is there?"

"Moron. There's this one, that makes drip coffee and espresso, or this other one that makes just espresso. Toots." Romano smirked, but to his surprise, England just gave him a sweet smile.

"Well…precious_…_which one would you like? I know you like espresso. I'm happy to buy one of those for you."

"Do you think you would ever use it when I'm not here, my treasure?"

England snorted before answering. "I might. I might make espresso once in a while just to remind me of you, pet." Then he paused. "Hey, 'pet' would be good. It's almost like 'git.'"

"You really are a moron, you know. You'd slip up and call America a pet."

"Bollocks. You're absolutely right." They thought about this some more, having temporarily forgotten about the coffeemakers.

Finally Romano drew his attention back to the shopping. "So anyway, doll, if you think you'd make drip coffee, we should get the drip and espresso machine, but if you won't, then the plain espresso machine is better."

"I don't really drink a lot of drip coffee, you know that, sugar. Let's just get the plain espresso machine." He picked up a box and they carried it to the checkout.

After they'd paid and left the store, Romano pointed out that they'd need some espresso beans to brew, so they headed for the nearest shop.

"Thanks for buying it for me, pumpkin."

"_Pumpkin?"_

"Hey, bastard, I'm running out of ideas, all right? Just go with it."

"Okay…baby cakes."

"Cheh. Here's the coffee shop."

They bought the beans without expressing any undue affection towards each other and headed back to England's house, where they set up the machine to test it. England continued to wear his jacket while they did this.

"Hey, why are you still wearing your jacket, stud muffin?" They both burst into laughter after that one.

"Uh. No real reason, just a little cold, duckie."

"_Duckie_?"

"I'm running out of ideas, too, wanker, so deal."

"Whatever, moron." They tested the espresso machine and found it to work quite well. Romano enjoyed his test cup, and England seemed to be enjoying his as well.

"Hmm, maybe I will drink some of this when you're not here. It would remind me of you, definitely, uh, bunnykins."

Romano snorted. "Well, as long as it gets me my espresso, I don't care if you use it or not. Just make sure there are some beans here when I'm coming to visit."

"Maybe you should always bring some beans, just in case. You're such an espresso demon."

"Demon!" Romano yelled.

"What? I wasn't trying to be, uh, you know, cutesy. I meant you're obsessed with espresso. Demonic about it."

"No, bastard, no, I wasn't yelling about that. I just realized what I can call you!"

"Uh-oh." England backed away a little, setting his espresso cup on the countertop.

"Come here, _angel_, and let me kiss you."

"Oh, Romano, that is so – insufferably sweet of you." England came over for his kiss.

As they embraced, something in the blond's jacket pocket poked Romano. "What the hell's this, bastard?" he asked, getting suspicious. Before England could react, Romano slipped his hand into the pocket and pulled out a digital voice recorder. "_Bastard!_ You've been _recording_ all this?"

England snatched it away from him. "Of course I have! When the hell else am I likely to hear you calling me all these sweet names, wanker!"

"You're such a bastard. Give me that."

"No."

Romano chased England all around the house until he was finally able to wrestle the recording device out of his hand and jump up and down on it. "You are not in _any way_ angelic, you bastard."

"I can't believe you just destroyed my brand new voice recorder. You _are _a demon. You owe me thirty pounds." He backed up against the dresser, scowling.

"Forget it. That was cheap." Romano pushed his hands through his hair, still breathing heavily from the chase.

After a moment: "Are you still going to kiss me, git?" England gave him the sweet smile, which Romano could never resist, and the brunet came to embrace and kiss his friend.

"Ah, moron, you know I can't stay mad at you."

As their lips met, England reached backwards and slipped the memory stick into a dresser drawer, for later.

…

_The anagram was "Moron and Angel."_


	20. Denmark and Norway

**Denmark/Norway.**

"Denmark."

"Hey, Norway, hi! What's up? Come over and have a beer with me."

"No, thank you. Are you free today? I need some help."

"I'm always happy to help, you know that. What do you need?"

"Come over and bring your glasses."

"My _glasses_? You want me to read to you?"

"Denmark!"

"Oh, all right, I'll bring them. I'll be over in a little bit."

Denmark finished his beer. He fetched his glasses, putting them in his pocket. Then he bundled up in his nice warm coat and headed out.

...

"Hi! How are you, Norge?"

"Fine. Thank you for coming. Please come in."

The shorter man let him in and led him directly to the master bedroom. Hmm. Denmark was getting _quite_ intrigued. But the house looked a bit of a mess. There were paint cans in the hallway; boxes of nails and long pieces of wood.

"What on earth is going on around here? Renovating?"

"Yes." This was all the explanation Norway tendered at the time. Denmark sighed. Well, maybe he could get more of an explanation out of him later.

"So what do you need me to do? I have my glasses with me." He took off his coat and flung it on the bed.

Norway paced a bit in front of the cold fireplace. "Denmark. I need some of the floorboards replaced. Will you help?"

Denmark looked at him with his mouth agape.

"Stop that, Denmark, you look like a fish."

Denmark shut his mouth. "You want me to replace the floorboards in your bedroom?"

Norway looked a little embarrassed. "Y-yes. I – I've got some gravlaks we can have afterwards? And beer?"

Denmark shrugged. "You know I'd do almost anything for gravlaks and beer." Of course, he'd do almost anything for Norway, too, but he knew it wasn't wise to say that. "Just – just one question, Norge. Why do I need my reading glasses? Replacing floorboards is not a close-up visual activity."

Norway turned red. "I…thought you might need to read the numbers on the boards, to see the order they're supposed to go in. If you don't need your glasses for that, it's fine." He turned away.

Denmark knelt down to look at the floorboards, but he kept peeking back at the still-embarrassed Norway. This was all a little strange. "Hmm. You're right," he lied, "these numbers are very small. I'll wear my reading glasses to do the work. It might also help keep dust out of my eyes." Clearly Norge was up to something. He was happy to play along. "I haven't done this kind of workman stuff in a long time, though."

Norway turned back to him with a sigh of relief. "It should be all right. Thank you, Denmark." He showed the taller man which boards needed replacing and where the new boards were, as well as the hammer and nails. "Do – do you want me to stay here while you work? I can't do much about this. I tried."

Denmark's heart melted at the thought of his little Norge struggling to replace these floorboards. "Uh…maybe you should stay," he suggested, "just to make sure I'm doing it right?" He scratched his head. He really wanted to spend some time together, even if he had to replace floorboards to do it.

When he looked over at Norway, he had to quickly school his face to keep the surprise off it. The shorter man was blushing bright red and actually had a tiny smile on his face. "I'll stay. Do you want coffee?"

"How about a beer?" Denmark grinned, picking up the hammer.

"I don't want you getting drunk and messing up my floorboards."

"Fine. Coffee would be very nice. Thanks."

Norway left the room to arrange for coffee and Denmark began sorting the floorboards into piles by number. By the time his host returned, he'd gotten everything set up and had put his glasses on. They were a bit nerdy – he'd been meaning to get new ones, but somehow had never gotten around to it – but at least they worked.

The two of them drank coffee in silence for a moment, standing in the bedroom. Norway kept sneaking peeks at his taller friend and blushing. It was making Denmark a little nervous, but he was a brave nation and could handle it.

When Denmark had finished, he set the cup on the mantel. "All right, I'm going to get started."

"I'll sit on the bed and direct you." Norway sat on the bed and got comfortable facing his friend.

The Dane could focus well when he needed to – or when he wanted to, as now. Eventually he forgot about Norway's presence on the bed and was immersed in his work. The nerdy glasses were a surprising help, and he was glad Norge had suggested that he bring them.

After a while he'd pulled up all the old floorboards and sat back to take a rest before beginning to install the new ones. He looked over at the bed. Norway was flushed and staring at him with his eyes wide.

"Norge, are you all right?" He got up and crossed to the bed in concern. Norway shook his head as if to focus, and picked up his coffee cup.

"I – I'm fine, Denmark. Give me your coffee cup. Do you want more coffee?"

"Yes, please. I'm going to take a short break. Do you want help in the kitchen?"

"N-no, that's all right. Just sit and rest. You're doing a very good job, Denmark."

The taller man beamed at the praise and sat on the floor while Norway left the room for more coffee.

When he came back, they once again drank without speaking. Eventually Denmark had reached the end of his cup and bent to his task again. Norway sat back on the bed to watch.

The floorboards were easy to install. In fact it was much easier to install the new ones than it had been to remove the old ones. Denmark finished in a very short time and stood up, dusting off his hands and putting his glasses back in his pocket.

"How does it look? Did I do a good job?"

Norway got off the bed and walked over. "Everything looks perfectly beautiful," he said in a small voice, looking up at Denmark and blushing. "Thank you." He very quickly reached out and squeezed his friend's hand.

"Oh, Norway," Denmark replied, understanding, and smiling down at him.

…

_The anagram was "A Nerdy Workman."_

_Hmm. I see that Denmark is developing this need to sort things into piles. First Romano's letters and now the floorboards. I wonder why?_


	21. Austria and Germany

**Austria/Germany.**

"Hello, Germany, I need your help. It's a medical emergency! Please come over as soon as possible! Oh, by the way, this is Austria speaking!" Click.

When Germany heard this message on his answering machine, he hastened to Austria's house, not even bothering to put on his military cap. Their histories were so intricately intertwined that the blond always felt a measure of distress whenever Austria was in trouble.

No one answered the doorbell when he arrived. "Austria! What is wrong? Where is everyone?" He burst into the living room, panting, to see Austria sitting calmly on the divan, sipping tea.

"Good afternoon, Germany. You got my telephone message?"

"What is going on? I thought you were in trouble?"

"Well, somewhat, yes. I need a blood transfusion and apparently you are the only one who can help me."

"_What?_" Germany blinked in confusion.

"I'm sure you heard me correctly. Are you prepared to assist me?" Austria set his teacup down.

"But why? Austria, what has happened?"

"Apparently, consumption of sugar has dropped in my country…which is really rather surprising…and I've become anemic."

"That – that's about the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," Germany managed to splutter.

"Ridiculous or not, anemia means I need a transfusion. I'm quite surprised, because I love sugar and desserts and simply cannot figure out why I have such low blood sugar. Dessert is the one food I'm almost constantly craving. Are you willing to help or not?"

Germany sighed. "Yes, I am. I cannot stand by and see a fellow nation suffering. What do we have to do?"

"First we need to get to the hospital, of course. Come along. Don't dawdle." Austria dragged his guest – his savior? – out the door.

At the hospital, they were put into adjacent beds and given some Sachertorte while they waited for the technician to prepare the equipment.

"Why are we eating Sachertorte?" Germany asked with his mouth full.

"You are such a boor sometimes. Don't talk with your mouth full. The sugar in the cake will help get my blood sugar levels back to normal."

"But that's just silly." Germany, having hastily swallowed his cake, really did think it was silly. There wouldn't be enough time for the sugar to get into his or Austria's bloodstream. He pointed this out to his friend.

"Actually," the technician interrupted, "it's just to make you feel better, to give you something to do while I'm setting up! It will not really have any effect on your blood sugar for at least two hours. But I would like to suggest that you do increase your sugar intake over the next few months." He gave Austria a very stern look. "You can't be running in here for transfusions all the time."

Germany gave Austria a dirty look, and Austria smirked back at him. "Regardless, Germany, you still need to help me."

The blond sighed. "You are always so _bossy. _You know I don't mind helping you, I never have, so there's no need for you to be so domineering."

"Perhaps you're right." Austria continued calmly eating his cake, being careful not to get any crumbs on his elegant clothing.

"Would you like to go out for dessert afterwards?" Germany eventually asked.

"I don't mind that at all. Thank you."

They sat back to relax after finishing the cake; a nurse came and took the plates and forks away. The technician connected up all the equipment. "Are you prepared for the injection?"

"Injection?" Austria yelled in a panic. Germany burst out laughing.

"Please be calm, sir," the technician said, swabbing his arm. Austria began to quiver.

"Austria, you need to get a grip on yourself," Germany told him. "If you are shaking, it will be harder for them to insert the needle."

The dark-haired man paled, but manfully stopped his quivering.

"G-germany…"

"Yes?"

"W-will you hold my hand? Please?" Austria said in a tiny, squeaky voice.

This almost made Germany start laughing again, but he squelched it and reached for the other nation's hand without a word. The technician finished connecting them up and began the transfusion.

As Germany's blood poured into his veins, Austria could feel his body and his resolve strengthening. "Ah, this was exactly what I needed," he sighed. "Thank you." He squeezed Germany's warm hand. "I can feel myself getting stronger already."

"I'm glad," his friend said calmly. "You know I would never want anything to happen to you." He blushed, a little.

Austria simply smiled at him while they waited for the transfusion to finish.

When they were done, the technician disconnected all the tubing and bound up the injection sites. "Please be careful for the rest of the day, both of you. Remember to eat more sugar and stay strong! Don't get anemic again!"

"Thank you," Germany said, shaking the technician's hand.

They walked out of the hospital together. Austria looked a bit distracted. "Are you all right? Do you feel queasy or weak?" Germany raised a hand to feel Austria's forehead, but his temperature seemed normal.

"Germany, your concern is so touching. I feel all right, except –"

"Except what?"

"I have a strange feeling - ?"

"What do you mean? Do we need to go back to the hospital?" Germany looked quite alarmed and tried to steer Austria back in through the double doors.

"No, no, that's not it at all. Stop trying to drag me back in there! I just – well, normally, as I mentioned earlier, dessert is the one thing I always want to eat. And I'm not craving dessert at all right now. I have never felt this way before!"

"Maybe it's because we just had the Sachertorte, or because of the sugar you got from me in the transfusion?"

"N-no, it's…weirder than that."

Germany was really worried now. Austria never used words like "weirder." Unless he was talking about Prussia.

"W-weirder in what way?"

"I seem to have developed an inexplicable craving for wurst and potatoes!"

..

_The anagram was "Try Sugar Anemia."_


	22. Austria and Holy Rome

**Austria/Holy Rome.**

"Kiss me, Austria." Holy Rome puckered his lips and leaned up towards Austria, who recoiled in shock.

"Holy Rome, what are you doing!" The taller man got off the divan and backed away quickly. This was not like the usual childish "kiss me" requests he had always gotten from Holy Rome before – although he had always been quick to decline those as well.

"Oh, Austria…I feel so…passionate today…" Holy Rome fluttered his eyelashes at his friend.

"Holy Rome, you are _freaking me out._"

The shorter nation then sat back and scratched his head. "I'm kind of freaking myself out, too. I don't understand what's gotten into me. I just have this inexplicable urge to make out with you."

_What? _Austria walked further away. "Holy Rome…did…anyone ever talk to you about…puberty?"

Holy Rome took off his black hat and set it on the table. "Well…France does, but France is a freak. I try not to listen to him. What's puberty?"

"I – I'm not entirely certain I'm…er…qualified to explain it to you," the dark-haired man groaned. "Perhaps France is the best person after all."

"What does that have to do with us making out?"

Austria stamped his foot. "I do not wish to make out with you!" he thundered.

Holy Rome's face fell. "Nobody ever wants to make out with me," was his muttered reply.

This was a bit disconcerting. "You mean you've tried this with other people?"

"Well, of course I have! I've tried asking Italy and Hungary too! They're the only other people around here. I _refuse_ to ask Prussia." He couldn't meet Austria's eyes.

Now Austria dithered. He wasn't sure whether he should be upset that Holy Rome was pestering everyone to make out, or upset that Holy Rome had apparently not wanted to put him, Austria, at the top of the list! He stood quietly fuming for a moment while the other nation looked down at the floor.

"How – how long have you been in this sort of a mood?" Austria finally managed to ask.

"Oh, all day today."

"N-no, I mean…ever."

"Oh." Holy Rome looked up again. "Probably about three months?"

"Three _months_?" Things were just getting worse. Holy Rome had been on a bender for three months before he'd even considered approaching Austria? He sank down on a chair, head in hands.

"What's the matter, Austria?"

"Uh. Nothing. Just…let me regain my composure." He looked longingly at the piano, wishing he could spare some time for Chopin, but he really needed to address this issue before things got even more out of control.

Finally he took a deep breath. "What – what did Italy and, and Hungary say, when you asked them?" He wasn't really sure he wanted to hear this answer, but he couldn't _not ask._

"Hungary said I was too little."

"Well, that makes sense; for her, you are. What did Italy say?" This was the question Austria feared asking the most. He knew Holy Rome had – unusual feelings – for Italy. He hoped the little nation hadn't been scared by Holy Rome's advances.

"Italy…did not know what I meant. And I didn't know how to explain it. So I just said 'forget it' and came away from there."

"That was a very good thing to do, Holy Rome."

"So will you kiss me? As a reward for doing the right thing?"

"Argh, _no!_ Look. If you really feel this unquenchable urge to make out with someone, go see France."

"Austria, I do _not_ want to make out with France! I don't even want to talk to him about this. I feel very frustrated and uncomfortable – although amorous, certainly – and I don't need that freak bossing me around and laughing at me."

"I see what you mean." He looked at the piano again, but kept his mind focused. "But I really don't know what to tell you."

"I have an idea."

This made Austria nervous, and when his friend spoke again, he knew he'd been right to worry. Holy Rome continued, "Why don't you and I just make out for a little while and then it might make me feel better, and I can go away?"

"You are very creepy today. I won't make out with you, Holy Rome, I don't care how amorous you are, or how heartily you plead with me. I don't think it's right in any case, and you are too young, and shouldn't even be thinking about these things."

Holy Rome stared at the floor again. "Maybe I will go see France. Maybe if I kiss him it will make this feeling go away."

"Are you trying to guilt me into kissing you?" Austria barked. "It's not going to work!"

"_Pleeeease_, Austria. Just for a little while?"

"Give me a few minutes on the piano, please. I really need to think for a moment without all this…seduction. _Attempted _seduction."

"Feel free." Holy Rome put his hat back on and leaned back against the divan to listen.

Austria sat at the piano and played some Liszt for a change, losing himself in the music. By the time he'd finished the piece, he'd completely forgotten why he'd sat down at the piano in the first place…until he felt Holy Rome's arms embracing him from behind.

"Holy Rome!"

"I'm sorry, Austria, but your playing is so arousing. I had to come over to you…"

"That does it. I cannot be fending off your amorous advances all day! Go see France, or go somewhere else, but get out of here!"

Holy Rome pouted. "All right. I'll go to my room." He shuffled out of the room, hat in hand.

"And don't come out until you've gotten this silly nonsense under control!"

The small nation just nodded and kept walking.

Guilt assailed Austria again. "Oh, Holy Rome, forget it. If you can stay out here without pestering everyone, you can stay."

"Thank you." He put his hat back on and came back into the large room. "May I have some coffee? I find that coffee always takes my mind off this sort of thing."

Austria felt as if steam were coming out of his ears. "_Then why didn't you say that in the first place_?"

…

_The anagram was "Heartily Amorous."_

_This chapter took me a really long time to write. Poor Holy Rome. I really love to torment the little guy. Next time I'll try to give him something noble and honorable. I hope the anagram generator is kind to him._


	23. England and Spain

**England/Spain.**

"Listen, git, if I've got to fly this thing with _you_ as my co-pilot, I need a drink. Give me the rum."

Spain rummaged around in a carpetbag at his feet. "Well, first of all, amigo, I'm not certain I want you drinking while you fly a plane."

"I'm not your _amigo!_ And second of all?" the island nation scowled.

"There is no rum."

"Well, what is there, wanker? Just give me something to drink."

"Orange juice?" Spain smiled.

"You're a total tosser. Why did they saddle me with you for this flight? A monkey would be a better co-pilot. Isn't there any vodka?"

"Vodka? I didn't know you liked vodka, Inglaterra."

"I don't. But I'd drink it just to get my mind off being stuck in this fucking cockpit with you."

Spain began to snigger a little, while still looking in the bag.

England blew out a sigh. "You and the frog are really insufferable. Is there any whiskey?"

"No whiskey."

"Hey, look, there are Prussia and America," England said, distracted by the other plane. He waved to them and America waved back. He turned back to his co-pilot. "Hey! Armada boy!"

"What now?" Spain looked up. "And stop bringing that up. It was a long time ago."

"You just can't bear that you lost. Is there any…bourbon?" he asked, since America was still waving at him.

"No bourbon."

"Bollocks, Spain, what the hell's in the bag? How inept are you?"

"I'm not inept at all. I'm not the one who packed the bag, you know."

"Well, who did?"

"How should I know?"

"You have tomatoes for brains."

"Just fly the plane, please, Inglaterra, and don't crash into Prussia and America."

"I'm an experienced pilot, wanker, I wouldn't do that. Is there any…cognac?"

Spain snorted. "Cognac. No."

"Brandy? Hell, I'd drink Everclear at this point, just to get you out of my brain."

"No brandy or Everclear. What the hell's Everclear, anyway?"

"American grain alcohol. Ridiculously high proof. Illegal in a lot of places. Very useful for getting drunk very quickly!"

"Seriously, I don't think you should drink and fly."

"Damn it! Come on, Spain, can't you see this flight is driving me insane already? Do you _want_ me to crash? Look, just pull out whatever's in the bag and give it to me."

Spain tried to move the bag out of reach, but when England saw that, he let go of the controls and leaned over to grab the bag. "Son of a bitch. Give me the bag!"

The two of them tussled for a few seconds before England realized the inadvisability of trying to fly a plane without looking. He sat back up and pushed his hair out of his eyes. "Give…me…some…booze."

"Booze. You're so elegant." Spain laughed at him.

"Just give me the stuff!"

"No. Not until you ask for it by name."

"Git. Do you mean brand name? I'm going to be here all day if that's the case."

"No, just ask for it by type." The brunet sat back in his seat, still grinning, this time a little maliciously.

"Akvavit."

"No."

"Damn it. Tequila."

"No tequila. Don't you think I'd be drinking tequila if we had it? You're not the only one who finds this intolerable."

"Huh, America and Prussia have outpaced us, because you were too busy goofing off to find me a drink! Scotch."

"No Scotch."

"Damn it. Are we into the fancy stuff? Kahlua?"

"No fancy stuff."

"What, none? Wine?"

"No wine, Inglaterra! Where would we get a corkscrew?" Spain stared at England as if he were an idiot. Maybe he was.

"Well, _if_ someone had packed the bag correctly, they _might_ have remembered to put a corkscrew in! Beer?"

Spain snorted. "No beer."

"This is driving me nuts. Hey, here come Germany and Italy." He waved at them through the window; Spain also stopped what he was doing and waved frantically. Apparently Germany was focusing too hard to look, but Italy was waving at them like his arm was going to fall off.

"How the hell did I get stuck with you, anyway? Everybody else got to pair up with a friend." England let go of the yoke and ran his hands through his hair again.

"Luck of the draw. Nobody wanted me and nobody wanted you."

"Shut up, git. What the bloody hell is in that bag?"

"I can't believe you haven't guessed yet."

"Give me a hint."

"No."

"Then give me the bottle!"

"Still no." Spain began laughing gently at the irritation on the pilot's face; he leaned over and pinched England's cheek.

"Ow!" England smacked his hand away. "Uh, Cointreau?"

"No Cointreau. No Sambuca, no Drambuie, no Jägermeister, no Amaretto, no Chivas, no Kirschwasser."

"Schnapps."

"No schnapps."

"What, none? Is there actually any booze in that bag?"

"Yes! There are three bottles. All three are the same thing." Spain began laughing again.

"Bollocks, we're almost done with the flight. And Canada and France have just passed us, too. Damn it, if you'd given me the booze when I asked you for it, we could have won this stupid race!"

"All you had to do was ask for it, you know." Spain kicked back in his seat. "I'm going to take a little siesta now." He closed his eyes.

When England was satisfied that Spain was asleep, he leaned over and gently tugged the bag towards him. He opened it, trying to keep his eyes on the instrument panels, and drew out a bottle.

Spain awoke with a start. "Give me that bottle, Inglaterra!"

"No! I got it out, and it's my bottle. Go away."

Spain leaped on him, laughing, and tried to wrestle the bottle away. "Give it back, you lush!"

They struggled for a moment, England still trying to unscrew the bottle cap while looking at the instrument panel, and then Spain managed to get it away from the blond. He flopped back into his seat and stowed the bottle again.

"Bollocks. I hate you. I've always hated you, and I'll continue to always hate you." England pushed his hands through his hair. "You're a complete tosser."

Spain was out of breath. "I hate you too," he said with a grin. "It always seems to work out best that way, doesn't it? Now just land this plane safely and we won't have anything to do with each other after that."

The island nation focused on landing the plane; they'd come in fourth, just ahead of Russia and Latvia.

As they climbed down to the tarmac (Spain with the bag in his hand), the race's sponsor came out to congratulate them. "Gentlemen, as your prize for coming in fourth place, we are pleased to offer you a case of gin."

_"Gin!"_

Spain started laughing again.

…

_The anagram was "Gin and Planes."_


	24. Prussia and Holy Rome

_Sorry, Holy Rome! I did it again! And my self-imposed "5-chapter no-Prussia moratorium" is now over, too, kesesese…so here we go._

* * *

><p><strong>PrussiaHoly Rome.**

"Holy Rome, Holy Rome! It's great to see you!" Prussia burst into the house like his typical whirlwind self. "I've been hearing all sorts of interesting things about you. What have you been up to?" He picked up the smaller nation and twirled him around like a little child before setting him down.

Irritated, Holy Rome straightened his hat before replying. "I'm fine. Why are you here? What have you been hearing?"

Austria came into the room just as Prussia answered, "Austria tells me you're looking for someone to make out with!"

Austria turned and scurried from the room.

"I am…most emphatically…not, I repeat, not looking to make out with _you_, if that's what you're driving at." Holy Rome turned away so he wouldn't have to even _think_ about such a thing.

"You know it would be awesome to make out with me. You know that everyone, in fact, likes to make out with me."

"Like who?" Holy Rome was frankly astonished and turned back to face Prussia. He couldn't imagine _anyone_ wanting to make out with the obnoxious albino. For that matter, he couldn't imagine Prussia shutting up long enough to kiss anyone.

"Oh, everyone," Prussia said, waving his hand airily…which probably meant "nobody."

Holy Rome stamped his foot. "In any case, regardless of how awesome it may or may not be to kiss you, Prussia, I refuse."

"Did you kiss France yet? Is that what got you started on all this? Hmm, that man can _kiss…" _Prussia's voice drifted off.

Aha. Holy Rome should not really have been surprised to learn that those two had been kissing each other. Now he felt rather disgusted with the idea of kissing anyone.

"Come on, little one, let's make out." Prussia reached for Holy Rome, who ducked behind the divan.

"No!"

"You have no taste at all. I heard you asked Austria. And Hungary. If you were willing to kiss them, why not me? Kesesese! Come on…let's press our lips together, let's share some quality time…"

"_Quality?_ Get out of the house."

"I'm not leaving until you kiss me." Prussia flung himself full-length on the divan and beckoned in what he must have felt was a seductive way. Holy Rome took off his hat and threw it at him.

"Ow!" the albino yelled. "That is quite unawesome. Get over here and kiss me. Come on, Liebling, you know it would be the best experience of your short life so far."

"I'm _older than you are_, Prussia!"

"Perhaps that's true, but—"

"There is no 'perhaps' about it! Now stop pestering me!"

"Oh my, Holy Rome, you little obnoxious squirt. Here I am trying to do you a favor, take away some of this frustration for you, and this is the thanks I get. You should just be glad I'm not trying to invade your vital regions!"

"_I am going to be sick!"_ Holy Rome stalked out of the room, but Prussia leaped up and followed him. "Get away from me! Go play with France!"

"I don't _want_ to play with France…I want to show you how wonderful it can be to kiss me. I think you realize it would be true; this is why you're in denial."

"I am not in denial," Holy Rome replied hotly. "Get out."

Prussia reached out and picked his friend up like a doll. "Gotcha!" The shorter nation struggled, but could not break free of the intense albino grip. "Now, listen, why don't you just give me one little kiss and we'll see how it goes? What's the worst that could happen?"

"You mean besides me getting _sick_?"

"Sick of what? You would never get sick of kissing me. You'll get addicted to it, and you'll be chasing me all over the place."

"Well, right there is a good argument for why we shouldn't do it. I have better things to do with my time."

"Like what? Name one thing."

"Cleaning my room! Making pasta for Italy! Going to war!" He struggled to get down again. Prussia was more irritating than usual today.

"All right, clearly you're not interested in making out with me. Well, let's compromise."

Holy Rome narrowed his eyes. "In what way?"

"Let's just kiss each other once, and then we can be done with it. I'd love to have the memory of kissing you, little Liebchen."

"Hmm. All right. Just one kiss. _Just one!_ But you have to put me down. No treating me like a child."

Prussia nodded appreciatively. "Very good, Holy Rome, I'm glad you are accepting the inevitable."

The blond started fighting him again at these words, but Prussia did set him down. "Come on; let's go into my room so nobody else sees this." He stomped off, Prussia following.

Once they were in Holy Rome's room, he closed the door and sat on the bed. "Fine. You irritant. Come and kiss me. Just once. Then leave."

"Kesesese, you've got a deal, little one. This really is going to be awesome." Prussia sat next to him on the bed and they leaned towards each other somewhat warily.

Holy Rome closed his eyes as Prussia's face got closer. Maybe that would make it less intolerable. He felt the albino's warm lips on his, a sweet, gentle kiss, and his lips responded involuntarily, pressing back. Hmm. Maybe this wasn't so bad.

Suddenly Prussia leaped away from him. "Urgh! Holy Rome, you are a terrible kisser! This was the dumbest idea I ever had in my life. I don't want to kiss you, forget it, I'm leaving." He jumped up and ran out of the house.

"But Prussia! Don't go! I want to keep making out! _Waaaait_!"

* * *

><p><em>The anagram (and I really had to stretch to get this, but I really wanted to write a follow-up about Holy Rome's kissing) was "O My, Share Our Lips."<em>


	25. America and Canada

_I'm American, and I'm going to Canada for the long T-day weekend, so I leave you with this one. Stay tuned for more chapters after Sunday._

…

**America/Canada.**

"Hey, Mattie, I just learned something very interesting about my hula dance."

"That's great, Alfred," Matthew answered vaguely. He was trying to read the label on a pint can of American maple syrup to see whether it was any good compared to Canadian maple syrup. But he'd forgotten his glasses upstairs and was too lazy to go get them.

"Aw, come on, put the syrup down and listen to me!"

Matthew sighed. He might as well. There was no way he'd be able to read this without his glasses, and he absolutely refused to either borrow Alfred's glasses or ask his brother to read the label for him. He knew Alfred would simply laugh and brag about how fabulous American maple syrup was. He sighed again and put the syrup can down on the counter. "Fine. Tell me something interesting about the hula dance."

Alfred sat up on the couch like an alert student. "I've learned that there are people who do the exact same dance, but they use maracas in it, and make the pace faster. Apparently it's like a whole new dance when you do it that way."

"Great." Matthew turned back to the syrup can, having already forgotten about the need for glasses.

"So I was thinking," his brother went on, oblivious to Matthew's disinterest, "that you and I should learn how to do the hula with maracas, so we can impress people."

This certainly got Matthew's attention; he spun in place to stare at his twin. "What? Why would I want to learn the hula dance, Alfred? It's a _girl's dance!_"

"But it isn't! Not if you do it the fast way, with maracas! You don't have to wear the grass skirts or anything." Here he pursed his lips, thinking. "Though I have to admit you and I would look really sweet in grass skirts, dude. Do you know how many nations would be chasing us?" He started laughing.

Matthew blushed. "I don't want any more nations chasing me!"

"What do you mean 'any _more_ nations'? Who's chasing you?"

"_Never mind_. I don't want to wear a grass skirt, which was the whole start of this discussion."

"Fine, how about if we just do it in our regular clothing? Jeans and sweatshirts? Come on. It'll be fun."

"I don't own any maracas."

"Pfft, that's easy enough to fix. We just need an empty can and some rice or dried beans. Even gravel would work. Got any empty cans?" Alfred got up and walked into the kitchen, where the can of maple syrup was still sitting on the counter. "Hey, this would work! This would actually be great, because it has one of those re-closeable lids like a paint can. Plus, being an American can, it's quite awesome."

"It's full of syrup!"

Alfred thought about this. "Well, make some pancakes, and we can eat the pancakes with this syrup, and then wash out the can and turn it into a maraca, so we can learn the fast hula dance."

"You're serious."

"Yes, I'm serious! It's a good idea and makes perfect sense!"

Matthew snorted, but he did pull out his pancake-making ingredients. "Fine. Just sit down and don't interfere while I make them."

"I can do that. I'll heroically sit here and not interfere."

"Well, you can get out the plates and cutlery." He got busy making pancakes.

Alfred opened the syrup can so it would be ready when they needed it, then fetched plates and silverware.

A first batch of pancakes hit the plate and they eagerly poured syrup on them and ate them. "Hmm, this American syrup isn't _too_ bad," Matthew offered.

"Aw."

"Don't pout. At least I didn't say it was garbage." They finished the first plateful and he went back to make another batch.

A second batch of pancakes was ready, and they poured syrup on and ate them. "Huh, there's still more than half a can of syrup left."

"You can be heroic enough to keep eating, though, right, Alfred?" Matthew smirked a bit as he asked this.

"Of course!" His brother burped. "Give me some more."

Well, Matthew had committed to this dumb exercise, so he made a third batch of pancakes and they poured syrup on to eat them.

"I'm getting full," Alfred eventually said, after slowly finishing his plateful.

"If you want to make the syrup can into a maraca, you'll have to keep eating. There's about a third of a can left. One more batch of pancakes ought to do it."

"Aw, Mattie, can't we just dump the rest of the syrup and wash out the can?"

"No, that's a very bad idea. You need to learn not to waste food! I'll make one more batch, and then, whatever syrup is left, we can dump, all right?"

Alfred groaned. "Yes, that's fine."

Matthew quietly made the last batch of pancakes. Both of them poured syrup on and ate very slowly.

"Urgh, Mattie, I'm way too full to do a hula dance. Or any other kind of dance."

"At least we have an empty can to make a maraca with." He washed out the can. "Go look in the pantry for the rice."

After some rummaging around, Alfred came back with the rice. "Here, bro. Make us an awesome maraca."

Feeling a bit sluggish himself, Matthew poured some rice into the clean can and replaced the lid. He handed it back to his brother. "Here. Test this and see if it sounds all right?"

Alfred tentatively shook the can. It sounded quite like a maraca. "Hey, this sounds great! It was a brilliant idea!" All sluggishness forgotten, Alfred leaped into the center of the kitchen with the maraca can and waved it above his head, waggling his hips and making music sounds. "Come on, let's dance!" He shook the can violently and the lid flew off, showering them both in rice.

_"ALFRED!"_

…

_The anagram was "Maraca Can Idea."_

_America really needs to be more careful with things that hold food._

_I've only ever had Vermont maple syrup so I will definitely try Mattie's stuff while I'm up there._


	26. Prussia, Spain and France

_Let's visit the Bad Touch Trio! The anagram is of their nation names._

_My trip got cancelled, so I'm recovering with some anagram therapy. No maple syrup for me!_

…

**Prussia/Spain/France.**

"It's time to get these flowers made, amigos."

"I don't want to bother with this, Spain. I want to go do something awesome."

"Prusse, we need to get these done so we have the free time to do things. Sit down and start making the flowers."

The three friends sat in front of an enormous pile of white paper squares and yellow paper squares which they attempted to fold into narcissi and daffodils using origami techniques.

"Come on, let's work."

Each of the three friends began to create a paper narcissus or daffodil.

"I am not very good at this, Francia. Why did we agree to do this?" Spain wrestled the paper with his fingers and had to keep unfolding and refolding it; his first attempt looked like a child's paper airplane.

"Japan needs a million paper flowers for his festival so every nation has agreed to make some. I simply thought it would be more fun for the three of us to work together today. I have some delicious treats for us, when we are finished."

"All I want is a beer," Prussia grumbled. "_Lots_ of beers! I can't do this artsy kind of junk sober!" He flung his paper narcissus across the room.

"Settle down! Just be patient and follow the guidelines." France pointed to the instruction sheet on the table. He already had a little pile of four paper narcissi on the table in front of him.

"When do we need to finish these by?"

"Tomorrow at noon, mes amis. Not a problem at all. We only have to make a thousand between the three of us, so that's only about 300 each! Let's get to work. After we're done, we can put them in boxes and take them to Japan's house. He doesn't need them until the next day."

"Yes, all right." The albino focused on the task.

"White is such a boring color," Spain eventually said, and Prussia hit him on the head. "Ow! What are you—oh."

France laughed at them. "Focus, please. Prussia, you know he was not talking about albino white."

"Yes, I know. Still. Shut up, Spain. Keep folding!"

"I'm going to switch to the yellow, then. Look, I did three white ones already!" Spain was very proud of his handiwork, which looked like a pile of discarded receipts wadded up.

"Just fine, Espagne, just fine; unfortunately, you are too slow! I've already finished fifteen paper flowers!" France's flowers looked marginally more origami-like, although they did not really resemble the pictures on the instruction sheet.

"Sí, sí, give me a break; I'll do more." He picked up a yellow paper square and started folding.

"I think I need a drink," Prussia said after a few minutes. His little pile of paper narcissi was very small, and each of the little flowers was bent on the edges.

France sighed. "At this rate we will not be able to finish! You two need to focus. Still, I do understand that sometimes you work better when you've been drinking, Prusse, so I'll get us some wine."

"Kesesese! I'll make the best paper flowers ever!"

…

At about 11:45 the next day they finally finished the thousandth paper narcissus. Prussia's hair was standing straight up; Spain had big dark circles under his eyes, and France's five-o'clock shadow had now grown out to about ten o'clock. All three of the friends looked and felt bleary, but they were also quite pleased that they'd accomplished their paper-folding mission.

"Here are the boxes, mes amis. Just dump them in." They hastily shoveled armfuls of paper flowers into the large boxes France had waiting, sorting them by color.

"Make sure the ugly ones go on the bottom," Prussia laughed. "I don't want Japan getting mad at us when he sees some of these."

"Yours are the only ugly ones, amigo."

There was a short scuffle which ended with Prussia embracing Spain and giving him a kiss. "You're so awesome, Spain."

"Sí, I know. You too, Prussia." Spain beamed at his albino friend.

When the three boxes were full, France taped them shut with a little piece of wrapping tape. They lugged them outside and prepared to travel to Japan's.

…

A brisk wind was blowing in Tokyo when they arrived. Japan was pleased to see them and their large boxes of paper flowers. "Please, put the boxes out in the back. There are other bags and boxes of the paper flowers made by other nations." He pointed towards the back of his home and they tramped out there in a line, each carrying a big, but lightweight, box.

France was at the back of the line. He stumbled on a sidewalk crack and tumbled forward, pitching his box into Prussia's back. The box burst open and spilled paper flowers everywhere; Prussia tripped from the impact and dropped his box, which bounced into Spain, knocking him over and breaking open, and Spain fell on his own box, crushing it. The wind chose that moment to kick up, and soon the air was full of swirling paper narcissi and daffodils, blowing out of Japan's yard and into the streets of Tokyo. The three friends simply sat on the ground: Spain, astonished, watching the pretty flowers spin through the sky; Prussia, pissed off at the pointlessness of all the hard work they'd done; and France, laughing at the irony of it all.

"We'd better get out of here fast, mes enfants; if Japan finds out about this, we're dead!"

They ran away together, very quickly.

…

_The anagram was "Paper Narcissi Snafu."_


	27. Romano and the Bad Touch Trio

**Romano/Bad Touch Trio.**

"Bastard, I need some money."

"Lovi, you know if I had any money you'd be the first person I gave it to, but…I don't have any money."

"What, _none_? Dammit."

"How much do you need?"

"Ten thousand Euros."

"_What_? What do you need that for?"

"Uh. Never mind. I, uh, I'll ask America, or England."

"What? No! Lovi, don't go to that pirate. I'll find the money for you."

"Seriously? You'll _find_ me ten thousand Euros." Disbelief was evident in Romano's voice.

"Well, I can try. Let's go talk to France."

"France doesn't have ten thousand Euros."

"No, that's true, but he might have five thousand?" Spain grinned and scratched his head. "If he had five thousand then we only need to find another five thousand."

"Cheh. I can do the math, bastard." They set off for France's house.

"You won't tell me why you need it?" Spain prompted.

"I want to buy something, that's all. Just – stop asking questions. I need the money and that's that."

"Whatever you say, mi tomatito."

"Stop calling me that!"

…

At France's house, the two nations settled in to discuss this with their host.

"But what do you need to buy, cher Romano?"

"Never mind! Why does everybody keep asking me this?"

"Lovi, if you expect people to give you ten thousand Euros, you really ought to provide some kind of explanation. That's a lot of money." Spain pinched his cheek, and Romano smacked his hand away.

"If you bastards don't want to help, I told you already, I can go elsewhere. You're not my only friends, you know."

"Ah, but we're your _best_ friends," Spain smiled. Romano just growled. "Come on. Let's go see Prussia."

"Argh. I – don't want to. Besides, he's always broke, the albino bastard."

"But he might have an idea."

…

"Antonio! Francis! Romano?" Prussia went from delight to bafflement in one easy step. "What's going on?"

"Lovi needs ten thousand Euros."

"I could use ten thousand Euros, too," Prussia mused. "In fact, if you can spare ten Euros that would help. West is too stingy."

Romano turned around and stomped out of the doorway. "Chigi! I told you bastards this was a stupid idea!"

"No, I'm sorry," Prussia apologized. "What do you need it for?"

"He won't tell us," Spain offered.

"I want to buy something."

"Well, if we all work together we can maybe just steal one. What is it?"

"Never mind, dammit!"

"Ah, well, we can't steal it if you don't tell us what it is. Or where it is."

"It's – it's in Japan, bastard."

The other three nations stared in shock. "You want us…to steal…a ten thousand-Euro_…_ 'something'…from Japan," Prussia finally concluded.

"Bastard! You're the one who's talking about _stealing_ it. Not me."

"H-how big is it?" Spain looked a little worried. "Could we all carry it, if we stole it?"

"Kesesese! A stealth mission! We can be like awesome ninjas…I mean, _ninja_…and steal it!"

"It's – well – probably about the size of a – a dog. I'm not sure."

The other three looked at each other.

"Where did you see it, mon cher? You haven't been to Japan."

"Someone…sent me the information."

"Who…?" Spain was getting a little worried, too.

"America sent me the paper brochure, and England sent me the link to Japan's website, though I couldn't read it."

_"What?_" Spain nearly fell over in his agitation.

"They, they knew I'd like one, so they gave me the information." Romano blushed and looked at the floor.

"Is it really worth ten thousand Euros?" Prussia asked. "Maybe I could steal one for me, and then I could sell it online and get some money that way!"

"It…might be. I don't really know, bastard."

"Cher Romano, will you please just stop being so _coy_ about all this? Just tell us what it was. Is."

Romano kept looking down at the floor. "It's a robot."

The Bad Touch Trio stared at each other in astonishment.

Spain was the first to regain his voice. "Why did you want a robot, Lovi?"

"No, no, no, ask him what kind of robot! What kind of awesome robot, Romano?"

"Merde. It doesn't really matter, does it? The question is, do you really want to scrape up ten thousand Euros just to buy this from Japan?"

"No, no, amigo, the real question is really 'Is it really worth ten thousand?'"

France agreed. "Perhaps we should go talk to him."

After some more pointless and inconclusive discussion, they all decided to go see Japan.

"So what kind of robot is it?" Prussia whispered loudly to Romano as they left.

"A robot…dog, dammit."

He once again succeeded in silencing the other three. They were halfway to Japan before any of them could think of anything to say.

"Care to tell us why you wanted a robot dog, mon cher?" France tweaked his ear.

"Ow...bastard. Well, it's supposedly an – an aromatherapy robot. There's a dial, and you set it to whatever kind of mood you're in, and it follows you around and scents the air with something that's supposed to, uh…make you feel better?" He blushed again.

Another stunned silence.

"Let's just get to Japan's place, mes amis," France decided, and nobody spoke for the rest of the trip.

…

"But of course, I don't mind showing you! Please, all of you, come along to my research and development facilities." Japan led them to the gleaming new building, which had a forty-foot-tall robotic dog standing in the spacious lobby.

"_That's _what you want? Lovi, where are you going to put it?" Spain stood staring up at it in shock. His face had gone white. Even Romano was a bit disconcerted.

"That is not the actual product, of course," Japan pointed out. "That is just a representative statue. The sales room is over here."

They all walked into a small on-site shop selling the robotic hounds. To everyone's relief, they were only about the size of a small dog. Prussia started eyeballing them, apparently trying to calculate whether he could slip a few under his coat.

"Bas—er—Japan, why do these things cost ten thousand Euros?" Romano was baffled. They came in pretty colors, certainly, but unless they also danced, sang and cleaned his house, he wasn't going to spend that much on one. They looked kind of creepy, too. No, he decided, he wasn't going to take home a robotic aromatherapy dog, even if Japan offered one for free. The pictures in America's brochure had been much nicer.

"What? They do not cost ten thousand Euros! They only cost a hundred thousand yen."

"What's that in Euros?" France asked.

"About a thousand? Where on earth did you get this idea they cost ten thousand Euros?" Japan was truly baffled.

"That's what America's note said! He sent the brochure and a note, and it said they were $13,000. So I checked the online currency converter, and it said $13,000 in US dollars was about ten thousand Euros! Dammit."

"Well, mon ami, that currency converter was correct, at least."

"I'm guessing America just screwed up his note. He's kind of spacy. Kesesese!"

"Are you going to buy a robot?" Japan asked politely.

"N-no, thank you, Japan. They are not quite what I'd envisioned." He gave the creepy robot dogs one last look before walking out of the shop. The others looked at each other, shrugging, and followed.

"Well, Lovi, what do you want to do now?"

Romano snarled. "What I _want_ to do is go beat the crap out of America and England for wasting my time!"

…

_The anagram (for just "Romano Bad Touch Trio") was "Aromatic Robot Hound."_

_American marketing can sway almost anyone. It's like headology!_


	28. France and Prussia

**France/Prussia.**

Prussia walked into his friend's house a bit shyly. "France…I…need to ask you a favor."

"Certainly, mon ami, what do you need?" France led him into the living room, which was brightly lit by the afternoon sun.

"I…hurt myself…and I want you to help me feel better."

Prussia seemed a bit…reticent today? France was intrigued. "Oui? Where are you hurt?"

"On my…my lips."

"What?" France began chuckling. "Prusse, my dear, if you want to make out with me, just say so! There's no need for all this embarrassing subterfuge. I'd love to kiss you, you know that. Come here; let me tend to those 'hurt lips' of yours." He continued laughing and Prussia actually pushed him away.

"Oh. What's the matter, mon cher? Please tell me." France tried to calm himself down, but it was difficult.

"Uh."

"Hmm, this must be fairly traumatic for you, my dear Prussia; you're not normally at a loss for words!"

"I…kissed Holy Rome the other day."

"What! Oh, my poor dear friend. No wonder your lips hurt. That must indeed have been traumatic! What on earth possessed you do to such a crazy thing with that belligerent little pipsqueak?" France burst into laughter again, but reached for Prussia and smoothed his hair away from his face soothingly while he hugged him with his other arm.

Prussia just stood there, blushing and looking at the ground. "Uh."

"Please tell me, Prusse. Why did you do such a thing?" France continued holding his friend, trying to help him relax.

"H-Holy Rome has been…pestering people to make out with him."

Before Prussia could go on, France started laughing again. "Oh, dear. Come and sit down, mon ami; it will be impossible for me to keep standing up if I'm laughing so hard." He and Prussia moved to the elegant sofa in his living room and sat. "Now. Start at the beginning."

"I did! Holy Rome has been pestering people to make out with him."

France stifled another giggle. "Which people? You? My poor friend…" He hugged Prussia again, but Prussia pushed him away.

"No. He was pestering Hungary and Austria, and they turned him down."

"Good for them. So how did _you_ get roped into it?"

"I…well, I thought it would be fun to…kiss him…so I talked him into it."

France managed not to laugh at Prussia again. "And wh-what happened?"

"Can't you just make my lips feel better without all this cross-examination?" Prussia finally exploded. "I hate having to explain all this to you."

France considered. "Well…what kind of _lip pain_ do you have?" He tried to stifle a snicker and instead exploded with laughter again.

"It's just a sprain." Prussia turned away and France put his head in his hands, covering his mouth.

"Prussia. How did you sprain your lips by kissing Holy Rome?" The blond picked up a pillow and held it over his face so he could laugh without antagonizing his friend further. "H-how do you even know it's a sprain?"

"Just help me! Don't you have some kind of…salve or something?"

France took a deep breath and managed to answer calmly. "I have some salve, but it's not going to make a sprain better. It will make your lips soft and smooth – perhaps this will entice Holy Rome to kiss you again - ?"

"Stop laughing!" Prussia punched his friend in the arm. "This is not a funny topic, France. Holy Rome is such a bad kisser that I hurt my lip when I recoiled in shock. I don't know if it's a sprain or what but it hurts like hell and I just want it to feel better!" Here he looked at his friend properly. "And get up off the floor and _stop laughing!"_

France still had his face pushed into the pillow, but by degrees he calmed down and took some deep breaths. "All right, mon ami. Let me get you the salve. Does the pain go deep, or is it just on the surface?"

"It's – just on the surface." Prussia hung his head. "Thanks, France."

"Sit tight, Prussia. I'll be right back." The blond moved off to find the salve. He continued giggling about this all the way to his elegant bathroom, where he unearthed the little pot with the healing ointment in it, and all the way back to where Prussia still sat, head in hands.

"Sit up, Prusse. Let me put the salve on you."

Prussia sat up and parted his lips, keeping his eyes shut.

France applied a bit of salve with his finger, lightly stroking it over the albino's lips, rubbing it in firmly and patting it to make sure it would soak in. "Does that feel better, mon cher?" he asked, his voice husky.

"Y-yes," Prussia replied, rubbing his lips together. "I'm – I'm sure it will feel better quite soon." He opened his eyes and saw France staring at him longingly, his lips parted also, eyes dark with desire.

"Prussia – your lips –" France moved closer on the sofa, reaching an arm to embrace his friend.

"No, no! I don't want to kiss you, France!" Prussia leaped up and ran out of the house, grinding his teeth. "But thanks for the salve! I'll come back and see you later, when the sprain has healed!"

France sadly watched him run off. "Merde. Perhaps I should pay a visit to Holy Rome."

…

_The anagram was "Surface Sprain."_


	29. France and America

**France/America.**

"Hey, France, come car shopping with me."

"Why do you need yet another car?"

"I love cars! Maybe not as much as Japan or Iggy, but…I make 'em, and I love 'em. Come on. I've got some pretty good ideas of where to go shop."

France sighed. Well, if it would keep Amérique out of everyone else's hair, he might as well. It wasn't as though he had anything more pressing to do today.

"I'll be over in a little while, mon cher. Stay calm."

...

"So listen, I have a list of four different places."

"Four? Why?"

"They're all having raffles today. I could win a free car!"

France snorted; somehow, he still managed to make it sound elegant. "Do you realize what the odds are?"

"Slim to none, yeah, I know. But still! Wouldn't it be cool if I did? Let's go."

They went to the first dealership, where America entered the raffle and then browsed the lot.

"I like this blue one," France said, pointing to it.

"Naw, that one's no good! I'll grant you it's a nice color – matches your cloak! – but it's not a good car. Anyway, I have a really good feeling about the raffle; I'm almost positive I'm going to win the free car."

"But…if you're going to win, then we don't need to go to the other dealerships, right? Let's go have some dinner, share a bottle of wine…?"

"No, no, _no_! What if my feeling is wrong, and I don't win? I have to enter all four raffles. Let's go, the next dealership is right down the road."

"Very well."

…

This dealership specialized in imports. America entered the raffle. He was so excited about this one that they spent the entire time near the raffle car, rather than looking at other models.

"Are you actually looking to get a new car, or just entering raffles today?"

"I'm looking for a new car, but I'm definitely not going to pass up a free car. That would be so awesome."

"Well, then, let's move on?"

"Oui!" America joked, and they moved on.

…

The third dealership had cars that even France admired. After America had entered the raffle, the two of them spent time examining the cars on the lot. America was surprisingly knowledgeable about them, and explained a lot about the systems of the newer cars. When they left for the fourth dealership, France was actually considering investing in an American car!

…

At the last dealership, America confessed that this was the one he'd been most interested in. "I really want to win the free car here. Check it! Isn't it sweet?"

They circled it, and France had to admit that it was a very nice-looking car. "I'm going to enter the raffle, too."

"No! You can't, France! You'll lower my chances! I have to win this car, man, I have to. It's so awesome; just look at it."

"Consider this. What if you win one of the other cars _and_ this one?"

"_Sweet_! I'll have to build a new garage to keep them all!"

France sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "Wouldn't you feel guilty, taking more than one free car, when there are undoubtedly others who would like to win them?"

America drew breath and struck a pose, no doubt preparing to make a declamation of his heroic nature, but then France's words actually soaked in, and he lowered his arm and hung his head. "Yeah. I know exactly what you mean. But I love winning free stuff…and I love cars…and it would really be amazing if I won just _one_ of these cars. We know I'm not likely to win more than one. Probably not even one."

"As long as you understand that. I don't think it would be a problem if you won _a_ car, and kept it. But if by some fluke of the draw you won more than one, you should definitely give one up."

America ground his teeth. "But I _love_ the idea of free cars. And they are _all_ so great! And anyway, a _free_ car is way better than a car you have to pay for!"

"America, think about the four cars. Decide which car you would really want most. Assume you will win all four cars. Rank them. Then if you happen to win more than one – which we both know is highly unlikely – you should keep only the one nearest the top of your list. You don't want your people to think you're greedy, do you?"

"N-no, I don't. I'll rank them…Okay, I've got them ranked. Let's go; they'll call me if I win."

"Very well. Shall we go for that nice dinner?"

"Sure, why not? I've got my cell with me! I told them to send a text so that they wouldn't interrupt me. That would be important if I was accepting a free car and another dealership told me I won!"

France rolled his eyes. "Bon. Let's go."

…

During the dinner, America nearly leaped out of his seat when he heard the text message beep. "France! I won the free car!"

"Stop acting like a maniac! Sit down!"

America sat down but couldn't keep the ridiculous grin off his face. "I can't believe I won!"

France, despite himself, was intrigued. "Which one?"

"The red one! Man, I love red cars. This is going to be so great!"

Before he settled down, he got a second text message. His eyes bugged out behind his glasses as he read the text. "No _way! _This is unbelievable! I _won the first car_!"

"You are a worse maniac than Prussia, sometimes. Settle down!"

"Aw, but seriously, France, this is crazy good! Two free cars!"

France waited until his friend had stopped bleating with laughter. "Which of them are you keeping?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

America flashed him a seriously fake pout before answering; France understood exactly what he was driving at, but continued to glare at him.

"I – uh – the red one was higher in the ranking."

"Bon. So you will tell the first dealership you are thankful, but that they should choose another winner."

"Awww…." America started to put on his puppy-dog face, but France was impervious to it. "Yes, all right," he conceded, and then the phone beeped again. He fumbled the cell phone so badly that he dropped it. By the time he recovered it, he was red-faced and grinning. "You're not gonna _believe this_~," he sang out.

"Fourth dealership? I know that's the one you really wanted."

"Nope, the third. But you know, even though I don't really want that car, this streak of luck is looking really good!"

"The law of averages is against you," France smirked, and drank some wine.

…

After the meal, they decided to revisit dealerships one and three, since they were the ones America had ranked lowest, and advise them of his decision. "But still, you'll tell everybody I awesomely won three free cars in one day, right? Man, England's gonna spit when he hears that! You'll tell him, right?"

"I'll tell anyone you wish."

They finally made their way back to the second dealership. Just as America was taking the keys to his new free car, he got another text message.

"I _WON_! I did it! I won four free cars in one day!"

"You're acting crazy again! Stop!" France hissed. But America continued to jump around the dealership, cackling.

"Hey, dudes, thanks for letting me win this awesome car, but seriously, you can give it to another winner. My day is totally complete! Come on, let's go!" he yelled, dragging France out of the showroom.

…

They drove home in America's new raffle car. "This has been the most lucky day of my life," he sighed happily. "I can't believe it. Everybody's going to freak!"

Exhausted, France slumped in the passenger seat. "Amérique, just take me back to your place, please. I'm so tired and you've been even more maniacal than usual, today."

"Sure thing, France. Thanks for coming out with me today. Maybe you brought me luck."

"Maybe so," his friend said, and fell asleep in the car.

…

_The anagram was "Free Car Maniac."_

_Damn frog. Cut and pasted "Am__é__riqu__e" just one time and it bollocksed up my proofreading language. Now every English word in the doc is coming up as an error, and I can't fix it!_

_And I think there's something wrong with the word counter on this site. I had pared this back to 1495 words before uploading it, and now it says it's 1631 words. Of course this rambling author's note isn't helping._


	30. Denmark and Britain

_Couldn't find any good ones for "Denmark England." Which is a shame, because you can get 'naked' out of it. I also tried "Denmark United Kingdom." That looked promising because you can get 'dead drunk' from it. Unfortunately, the letters that remain don't spell anything usable. _

…

**Denmark/Britain. **

"Hey, come on in, England. What's on the hand cart?"

"Gilbert told me you guys plowed through all that rum last month, so I brought you a few extra cases." He wheeled in a hand cart with four cases of rum on it.

"Hey, thanks. Just park it over there. Going to stick around for a while?"

"You think I humped all this rum over here just to leave it and run? No, I'll stick around. What are you doing today?"

"Well, speaking of Prussia, he gave me a present, and I'm having trouble with it."

"What is it? A robot?"

"_What?_ No. It's a mink."

"A mink what? Coat?"

"No! An actual, live mink."

"Gilbert gave you a mink. A – pet?"

"I guess. Who the hell knows what he's ever thinking."

"So what kind of trouble are you having?" England asked, as Denmark led him into the living room. "Bloody _hell!_"

It was now quite easy to see what kind of trouble Denmark had been having. The upholstery, curtains, rugs, and newspapers were thoroughly chewed to ribbons. "Denmark! What the fuck?"

The taller nation sighed and pushed his hand through his spiky hair. "This is what I'm talking about. This damn mink has been terrorizing my house! I'm trying to at least keep it confined to the living room so it doesn't destroy any more stuff, but I'm telling you, if this keeps up, I'm getting my axe out, and Prussia can just deal."

"You going after the _mink_ with your axe…or Gilbert? Ha ha. Where the hell is it, anyway?"

"My axe? Upstairs."

"No, wanker, I meant the _mink_."

"Oh. Who knows? Under the couch, maybe?"

England wasn't sure he wanted to get too close to the couch. "What exactly were you trying to do with it today?"

"Retrain it. Well, I guess, train it to begin with. It doesn't act like it has ever been trained. It's _so bad._ I don't even know what to do about it!"

"Why don't you keep it in a crate or a cage or something?" Just then a white streak flashed across the room and ducked under the couch. "Aah! What the hell was that?"

"That was the mink, England. How stupid _are_ you?"

"Git. I thought minks were black, or brown?"

"You don't think Prussia would give me a brown mink when he could give me an albino mink? No."

Oh.

"Anyway, why not in a cage?" England hesitantly peeked under the couch and drew back abruptly when all he could spot were two glowing red eyes. That thing looked _fearsome_.

"I have a cage for it, but it won't go near it."

"Put some bait in. What do minks eat?"

"Frogs and fish."

"Hah! I can think of one very sizeable frog I'd like to feed to it!"

Denmark snickered. "He wouldn't fit in the cage."

They thought about this for a minute. "Don't you have fish in the house? You always have fish. What about gravlaks?"

"You want me to waste my gravlaks on a fucking _mink_?"

"Hey, wanker, if the alternative is having it chew your house to shreds, putting out a little gravlaks is not really a problem, is it?"

"You may be right. Let's go in the kitchen. Be careful not to let it come in here." They scooted warily into the kitchen, closing the door firmly behind them.

Denmark fetched the gravlaks and put it into a bowl that would fit into the cage. Apparently the mink could smell it, because they heard the scratch of little nails on the kitchen door.

"Bollocks. That's creepy. Sounds like something out of a zombie movie."

"At least you don't have to live with it!"

"Well, neither do you! Give it back to Gilbert!"

"I will, if I can just _catch the damn thing!"_ He walked back towards the kitchen door.

"Wait, wait. Shouldn't you put the bowl into the cage?"

"The cage is in the living room, England. Didn't you see it?"

"Huh, no. Must have missed it, being creeped out by the zombie albino mink." He laughed. "Are you – are you going to be all right? I mean, will it attack you while you're holding the bowl? Some of that furniture looked pretty seriously destroyed."

"Hmm, yeah. Could you – could you go out and push the cage closer to the kitchen door? Then I can just open it and put the bowl in."

England was about to agree when the scratching began again. "Damn it! I'm not normally such a big girl's blouse, but this is just like a very bad horror movie. I'm afraid to go out there!"

"Just get out there and push the cage over to this door."

"You do it. I'll hold the bowl." The island nation grabbed the bowl from his host, who went out the other kitchen door with a sigh.

England heard the scrape of the cage being pushed across the hardwood floor. "OK, are you ready, England? The cage is right outside the door."

"Where's the blasted mink?"

"He ran off when he saw the cage coming."

"Fine. Where is the cage door? On top, on the side, what?"

"There's one on top. Hold on, I'll open it, and you can just open the door and lean over to put the bowl right in."

They accomplished this mission with a minimum of fuss. After the bowl was in place, England stepped into the living room and shut the kitchen door behind him.

The mink's tiny pink nose came out from under the couch, twitching, and then it made a beeline for the bowl of gravlaks. Once it was in the cage, Denmark slammed the door shut and locked it in there. Both the nations sagged against the wall in relief.

They could hear the vicious slurping and chomping of the animal as it devoured the fish. "That's still pretty scary-sounding," England offered. "Maybe we should have a drink to recover."

"I agree!" Denmark fetched one of the new bottles of rum and they sat on the destroyed couch to share it.

As they neared the end of the bottle, Prussia burst into the room bearing an open cage. "Hi, Arthur! Hey, Den! Guess what? I brought you a _present~_! Kesesese! It's another albino mink! A _female!_ I let it out already. Now you have a breeding pair!"

…

_The anagram was "Retrain Bad Mink."_


	31. Romano and Britain

_I'm kind of glad England has all these alternate names._

_..._

**Romano/Britain.**

"Bastard, come over, I have something to show you, you're going to love it, and I need your help with it."

"Whatever, wanker. I'm going to fly my helicopter, though. OK if I park it in the back yard?"

"Uh…no."

"What do you mean, _no_? Where am I supposed to park it, git?"

"Don't bring it. Look, the – thing I want to show you is in the back yard. Don't bring the fucking helicopter, all right? There's no room for it!"

"Fine. I'll be there as soon as I can."

…

Romano answered the door and led his friend straight through the house to the back door. "Now listen. Don't say anything stupid about this, all right? Just – just take a look at it."

"What the bloody hell _is_ it?"

"Please don't be stupid about it. Just take a look. Then I'll explain." They went out into the back yard.

England's jaw dropped, and he tilted his head far, far back, to see the gigantic – item – in his friend's back yard. "_Bollocks._ What is it?"

"It – it's a robot."

The robot was about fifty feet tall, shaped like a hero with a jetpack. England remained speechless for a few minutes. When he finally got his brain back together, he asked, "Where – why – you _what_?"

"I, uh."

"'Uh' is right! What on earth is this even _for_?"

"All right, bastard, just sit down and listen, all right? Just shut up and listen."

England shut up and listened.

"Remember you sent me the link to Japan's website about those stupid robot dogs?"

A nod.

"Well…I didn't get one. They were creepy, and expensive, and – and I was too embarrassed to buy one."

"Y-yes? How did you get from a dog-sized robot to this enormous – _thing_? This looks like something America would have in his back yard! Even in his _front_ yard!"

"I said shut up!" Romano barked. England raised an eyebrow, which apparently derailed his friend's train of thought. "Dammit!"

The two spent a few more moments in silence.

"Right. Now, shut up," Romano repeated, although England hadn't spoken. "So…about that. When you sent me that link, America sent me a brochure, too. You guys both knew that I wanted a robot."

"But, Romano, this—"

"Do you want me to explain? _Shut the fuck up!"_

The island nation, once again, shut up. When Romano yelled at him like this, it was pretty bloody serious.

"So, I went to Japan to look at those robots."

"You—" England interrupted himself and pressed his lips together to prevent him interrupting again.

"I didn't buy one. So…America found out, and he – he sent me this robot instead."

"That explains a _lot_." England blew out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Apparently he was feeling generous one day – something to do with the perverted bastard – so he sent me this robot for free."

"What are you going to do with it?" This, to England, seemed to be the primary concern. It stood almost as tall as the house, and took up a lot of real estate in the back yard.

"Well, he – bastard, it - it can fly."

"Fly what?"

"No, stupid. Like an airplane, I guess."

"Bloody hell."

"So I was kind of hoping you could help me figure out how to fly it somewhere that I can store it."

"How did it get here?"

Romano looked embarrassed. "It…has a remote control, and America made it fly here by remote. But I guess I'm just kind of…inept…because I can't figure out the remote."

The blond stood up and hugged his friend. "Of course I'll help, wanker. Where do you want to put it?"

"I don't even _want_ the damn thing! I mean, even if I could manage to use it, what would I do with it? I figured I'd put it in a warehouse, dammit."

England stood in thought for a minute. "I'm having a really wicked idea."

"Wicked in what way? Send it back to America?"

"N-no, well…kind of along those lines, but not America…see, yesterday, poor Denmark…" Here he explained his plan to Romano, whose expression turned both happy and malicious.

"Bastard, you're a fucking genius. Those idiots won't know what hit them. It'll totally trash their yard. It would be even better if we could leave it in the front yard; it would really get that bastard pissed off."

England knew exactly what he meant. "Do you want to leave them the remote?"

Romano burst out laughing. "No! Let's just dump the robot and run. They can pester America about it for a little while. He won't mind explaining it to them?"

"You're absolutely right, git, he won't. All right. Can two people fit inside this robot? Do you want to go?"

"Yes! This is going to be priceless."

"Get the manual out so I can take a look. I've never flown a jet-pack oversized robot before."

…

An hour later they were seated behind the robot's glaring glass eyes, and England had mostly figured out the controls. "This may be a bit awkward, but I think I can manage to do it so we don't destroy your yard or house."

"Better not, bastard," Romano said absently, but his mind was already looking forward to the successful conclusion of their plan. Maybe they could hide across the street and see what happened?

England successfully flew the robot to its destination. They parked it, leaped out, and ran, before anyone in the house could spot them.

...

"Hey, _WEST!_ Check this out! Somebody left us an awesome robot!"

…

_The anagram was "Airman in Robot." Couldn't pass it up, since we've had both airmen and robots in these stories already. _


	32. Germany and Prussia

**Germany/Prussia.**

"Prussia, what have you been doing _now_ to cause this kind of trouble?" Germany stood in the front doorway and stared at the gigantic hero robot on the front lawn.

"Why is this trouble, West? Kesesese, it's awesome, I have a gigantic robot! Romano's going to throw a fit when he finds out!" Prussia did a little dance on the lawn. "He really wants a robot!"

"Where did it come from?" The blond scrubbed his hand over his face. "It looks like one of America's toys. Why did he send you a giant robot?"

Prussia shrugged. "How would I know? I wasn't expecting a robot. Is there a note? Hey! We can sell it on the internet and make ten thousand Euros!"

"I believe this robot is worth a lot more than ten thousand Euros."

"Sweet! I'm going to take some pictures so I can list it online."

"Prussia! You need to find out who it belongs to! You can't just sell things that belong to other people!" Germany closed his eyes and said a short prayer for patience with his brother – the same prayer he said ten or more times a day. "Please let Prussia grow up and get a brain!"

"You really are too uptight, West. I'll send America an email, if you let me use your computer, and ask him about it. Maybe it's not from him. Maybe Arthur sent it."

"Why would England send you a gigantic robot? Why would _anybody_ send it to you?" Here, a thought occurred. "Maybe it's for me. From Japan."

Prussia raised his hands to the skies and intoned a quick prayer. "Please let my dumb brother realize that a gift this awesome must have been intended for me! Thanks."

"Come inside and check with America."

…

"Well, I sent the email. Guess we just have to wait and see. I'm going to call Den and Romano; I know they'll love to see this. Can I use the phone?"

"Yes, you _may_ use the phone, Prussia." Germany said another short prayer as his brother moved to the telephone. "Please let Prussia get a sense of responsibility! Thank you."

He could hear his brother cackling from the other room. When he came back in, Prussia was pouting. "Den can't come over; he's cleaning up his house. Nobody answered at Romano's house."

"Perhaps he's spending the day with Veneziano, or England."

"Yeah, maybe. I'm going to go sit outside and look at my cool robot. See ya!"

Germany simply put his head in his hands. "Please help me work on my patience," he prayed.

…

Later, the blond walked out into the front yard, trying not to look at the robotic atrocity. "America sent you an email," he told Prussia.

"What did he say?" The albino was still pacing around the base of the thing, looking up at it.

"It's for Romano. He doesn't know how it got over here by mistake; he must have set the autopilot wrong. He wonders whether you will take it over to Romano's. The instructions are in the cockpit. I just wonder what Romano wants with this."

"He's going to give it to me, that's what," Prussia decided, and said a quick prayer: "Please let Romano give me this awesome robot!"

"Why don't you call him first," Germany suggested, "and talk about it. That way he won't be surprised when we show up at his house, bringing a robot."

"How are we supposed to get it there? Can I borrow a trailer?"

"Fly it!"

"_Awesome~!_ Kesesese! Seriously, why the hell should Romano have a cool robot like this one? I'm not even going to sell it. I'm going to keep it."

"Prussia! It belongs to Romano! You can't just _keep it! _Please, please help me with Prussia," he prayed vaguely, under his breath.

"Fine. You're a real party pooper, West. Come on, let's go. Let's take it to his house and then I'll convince him."

"Shouldn't you read the manual first?" Germany suggested. "So we can figure out how to get it there?"

"Good point! Let's climb up and see if there's a manual up there. There's got to be something." He and Germany climbed up into the robotic cockpit.

Germany scratched his head. "If this really is for Romano, he's going to be in way over his head. You know how he is with this technical stuff."

"Please let Romano give me the robot," Prussia prayed again, absently searching for a manual.

When he found the manual, he and his brother sat down in the pilot and co-pilot seats to look it over. "Hmm. This doesn't look too bad. Think we can fly it?"

"Sure, let's try it. I'll fly it; you co-pilot, though. Do you know how to get to Romano's from here?"

"Kesesese, yes, of course I do, but...I really want to fly it, West. Come on, let me. If I screw it up, you can take over." He gave his brother a beaming albino smile. In a whispered voice, looking up to the sky, he added, "Please let West allow me to fly the awesome robot."

"Okay," Germany sighed, adding sotto voce, "Please don't let Prussia crash-land the robot on the way…"

…

"Hey, do you think we might run out of fuel?" Prussia asked nonchalantly, as they crossed the border into Switzerland.

"How should I know?" Germany looked in the manual. "Do we even know what kind of fuel it uses?"

Prussia began to look nervous. "Please don't let us run out of fuel," he prayed.

But his prayers were in vain…the robot began losing altitude quickly.

"Please don't let us die in a jet-pack robot crash!" Germany screeched, frantically searching for the reserve fuel tank.

"Please don't let us land in Switzerland!" Prussia added, folding his hands in prayer. "We'll die anyway!"

The robot continued its downward spiral over Lake Constance.

"Prussia, I think we're going to have to jump. There's no emergency fuel tank!"

"Please let there be some parachutes!" they chorused. A frenetic search unearthed two parachutes, which they hastily donned and leapt out the robot's ear, which was a window. Both the brothers managed to pull their cords in time and angle the parachutes down towards the shore.

As they watched the massive robot plunge into the lake, each of them offered up a fervent prayer of thanksgiving. "Thank you for not letting us die in a jet-pack robot crash!"

But when they landed and saw Swissy approaching at the hurry-up, guns drawn, they both began gabbling hasty prayers of quite a different sort.

…

_The anagram was "Amusing Prayers."_


	33. Austria and Prussia

**Austria/Prussia.**

"Now, Gilbert, please behave yourself tonight." Roderich was not in a good mood; he'd lent his musicians to Alfred for this party, and Alfred was such a classical music philistine...He hoped the musicians were at least being appreciated by the other guests.

"Now listen, Roddy, you always lecture me when we go to parties, and you know I can behave myself! I'm such a well-behaved man. I don't know why you get so agitated about this." Gilbert buffed his nails on his dark blue jacket. He looked quite elegant tonight, forgoing his usual military look for a more sophisticated and courtly approach.

Roderich, also in dark blue, took his arm as they climbed out of their coach. They made a handsome pair, Roderich dark and scowling, Gilbert pale and effusive. As they walked up the steps of the large mansion, two people fled the party into the night, one of them tossing something on the steps as they ran off.

"Was that _Arthur_? In a _dress?" _ Roderich actually turned in place to look after the departing couple. "And Lovino? I wonder what kind of a party this is actually turning out to be?"

But Gilbert's attention had been grabbed by the object that Arthur had thrown down in his flight. "Check this, Roddy, it's a diamond tiara! " He picked it up and examined it. "Or, well, maybe a cubic zirconia tiara. I'm no gemstone expert." Gilbert turned it over in his hands a few times. "It's a bit bent. I wonder why Artie threw it away?"

Roderich was still staring into the darkness. "Are we sure he threw it away? Maybe it simply fell off?"

"No, it's too bent up for that. It fell pretty heavily." He put it on his head. "How do I look?"

The brunet snorted. "Ridiculous, as expected. Well, you'd better hold onto it. Maybe he'll want it back later."

"I'm wondering why he was wearing a dress! And why he ran off with Lovino? I didn't even know those two were friends. Though if Artie looked really good in the dress, maybe that was enough to get Lovino interested! Kesesese~!"

"Come on, let's go inside, and maybe we can find out." Roderich grabbed his companion by the arm and dragged him up the steps, Gilbert still wearing the tiara.

Alfred came pelting over to the door with Feliciano close behind. "Did you see them? Where did they go? Damn, Arthur ran off with that diamond tiara! That thing cost me a fortune!"

"And where did they go, ve? I wanted to dance with Arthur!"

Roderich ignored the younger man's bizarre comment and pointed to Gilbert's head. "This is yours?"

Alfred took it gently, with relief. "Thanks. Wow, I'd have been in big trouble if he'd run off with this. Come on in, enjoy the party."

"Hey, Alfred, can I wear the tiara?" Gilbert asked. "I know it looks awesome on me."

Alfred considered this. "It's kind of bent out of shape. Plus, it doesn't really go with your outfit, you know. It's more girly."

"Hey, the awesome me can carry off a girly tiara! Come on, let me wear it. It's a bit beat up, but I checked, and no diamonds are missing; and at least you'll know it's in good hands. Er…on a good head. Nobody would dare take a tiara off my head, kesesese."

"Well, if you want. Just remember to give it back at the end of the night. They are real diamonds, you know." Alfred turned back to his party. Feliciano continued to stare sadly into the night.

Gilbert and Roderich followed their host. "Are you certain you want to wear a beat-up tiara, Gilbert? People might think you were careless, or too cheap to wear a good one."

"Don't be silly, Rod. A good-looking man looks good in anything he throws on. I'm going to make this tiara mine. I don't know where Alfred got it, but even though it's beat up, I want it. I don't care if it's beat up."

"Suit yourself. Would you like to dance?"

"I would adore to dance, Roderich," the albino said, sweeping into a courtly bow. They met to begin the minuet.

Roderich was pleased that the musicians were performing well. Gilbert, too, was an expert at the minuet, and the two of them elegantly moved through the dance's paces, the diamonds winking on the albino's bent tiara. Other party guests joined the dance or sent admiring glances towards the two of them.

Yes, Roderich considered, even though Gilbert could be a real nuisance at times, he was quite companionable if he could be controlled. It seemed that the temporary acquisition of the tiara had moved him into a calm and pleasant mental place. He was dancing with finesse and smiling nicely at the other guests. Roderich began to relax.

After the dance ended, the two of them walked to the tables of food. "I love this tiara," Gilbert told him, catching a glimpse of himself in a baroque mirror. "The flash of the diamonds looks so effective against the white of my hair."

"Yes, yes, Gilbert," his date snapped testily. "We are all aware of how good-looking you consider yourself to be. Now please stop admiring your 'albino awesomeness' and either eat, or come socialize with me."

"Let's socialize," Gilbert decided. "The more people that see me in this beautiful tiara, the better."

Roderich rolled his eyes, but took his companion's arm and they walked off to talk to other guests.

Several hours later, the party began to break up. Roderich wanted to leave, so he made Gilbert look around for Alfred, to return the tiara.

"How much did this cost you?" the albino asked his host.

"Three hundred florins!" Alfred took it back and caressed it lovingly. "I wish he hadn't bent it out of shape!"

"Three hundred florins? Then they can't possibly be real diamonds, Alfred," Roderich pointed out gently.

"Can I buy it from you?" Gilbert added.

"_You_ have three hundred florins?" Alfred sounded astonished.

"Well…it's not really worth three hundred any more, is it? Since it's all beat up. I'll give you a hundred."

_"What?"_

"You heard me! It would probably cost you at least a hundred to have a jeweler fix it! Come on, Alfie, you know it's a good deal."

"Gilbert, you are insufferable," Roderich hissed under his breath, but his date merely nudged him with an elbow, watching Alfred think.

"Hundred fifty."

"Deal." Gilbert took the tiara back and put it on his head. "Uh…Roderich…do you have a hundred fifty florins I can borrow?"

…

_The anagram was "Usurp Tiara As Is."_

_Hey, I don't know why it had to be florins. Dollars just seemed too modern for this one._

_I drew Gilbert in his tiara. It's on my dA account._


	34. England and Holy Rome

_This is turning into the "Amorous Adventures of Holy Rome." Poor guy. _

…

**England/Holy Rome.**

"We simply cannot allow France to send a Bourbon to rule Spain! I won't allow it!" England thundered.

Holy Rome agreed. "We will join forces and stop them. Do not worry. You may not know how much France irritates me. For many hundreds of years now. I refuse to allow him to win this. Him and his crazy friend Spain."

England merely snorted at the mention of Spain's name.

"Now, listen, England. I – have been thinking about something."

"Yes?" the island nation responded politely.

"We should share a command tent."

"What? Why?" This was an unusual demand.

"I – think it would be best if we…presented a unified front? The troops and our other allies…would…see that we were cooperating…yes, that's right, they would see that we were cooperating."

"Don't you think they'll realize we're cooperating when they see us working together? I don't really see why we need to share a command tent. Besides, your command tent is very austere. I don't mind austerity, old chap, but I prefer at least a little bit of luxury."

"I can certainly compromise on the luxury. In fact, why don't we do this?" Holy Rome had an unusual gleam in his eye, England thought, but he might as well keep listening. "When we choose our site, please allow me to set up the command tent. If you come in and find that it is not to your taste, you may certainly have your own tent. But in the…spirit of friendship…yes…I would like to offer this to you."

England sighed. "All right, Holy Rome, if it makes you happy. You can set up a command tent, and if I don't like it, I don't have to stay there. Yes?"

"Yes!"

"Just one more question. What about Prussia? He's our ally here too. Will he be sharing our command tent? I have a difficult time with that idea."

"I – am not sure. Prussia and I have occasionally not seen eye to eye." Holy Rome sighed and stared into space with a dreamy expression. "I will try to ascertain whether he would wish to stay in the central command tent. If he does, then in that case you can choose whichever tent you wish."

"Very well. Please keep me posted."

…

When they reached the first area of conflict, England set up a small, bleak tent for himself, pending approval of Holy Rome's alleged luxury tent. He really wondered what the shorter nation was up to. There was no real need to share a command tent, no need at all.

"Ah, England, there you are. Prussia has decided that he does not wish to share a tent with me…he apparently cannot get over a certain experience we once shared that was distasteful to him." Holy Rome stamped his foot.

England recoiled a little. Surely Holy Rome and Prussia hadn't...?

"In any case, I have set up my tent. Do you wish to examine it?"

The island nation was now quite a bit hesitant. What if Prussia and Holy Rome _had..._? But that would mean that Prussia had found it _distasteful_? Holy Rome was older than Prussia…had he coerced the albino into something? Here, England realized the absurdity of these thoughts and shook his head. "Forgive me, Holy Rome; it's difficult for me to concentrate on the eve of a battle. Yes, let me come see this tent of yours."

They walked together to the tent. Holy Rome appeared to be fighting an eager grin. This was making England quite nervous. "Wh-where is Prussia, anyway?" he asked, just to make conversation.

"His forces are on the east side of the glen." Holy Rome pointed in a vaguely easterly direction.

England stopped, turned and looked into the eastern distance, and did indeed see the Prussian standard flying above the field. "Ah, yes, I see where he is. Good, that's good to know."

Holy Rome merely grunted.

As they approached the tent, Holy Rome began acting shy. "I – hope you will find it appointed to your liking," he said, almost softly.

England stepped into the tent and his jaw dropped. This tent looked like some repressed adolescent's fantasy of a harem! The inside of the tent was hung with exotic tapestries; rich silk rugs were spread underfoot, with tasseled and jeweled pillows scattered artfully here and there. Small tables held trays of sweets, and a silver tea service sat before a brazier on the floor. Some hidden person was playing a soft melody on a flute, and the air was scented with jasmine and neroli. England was so startled and amazed that he almost missed the fact that there was only one, sizeable, camp bed in the tent.

"H-holy Rome…what the bloody hell have you done? What is all this craziness?" He tried to laugh it off. The flute player abruptly stopped and they heard him exiting out the back flap of the tent. The island nation turned back to his host, only to find that Holy Rome had removed his unfashionable black hat and thrown it down near the brazier.

He stepped closer to his guest. "Oh, England," he tried to croon, "I have long desired to welcome you into my tent. You are so tall and noble…your blond hair so flowing…I would love to share my tent with you." He reached out a hand and put it on England's forearm, gently stroking it. "Please stay with me tonight, England…I'm so desperate for your company…"

The island nation, who had stood frozen through all of this, suddenly snapped to attention and shook off Holy Rome's hand. "What the hell? Holy Rome, have you gone _insane_? No, I absolutely will not share a tent with you, and especially not – not a _bed_!" He blushed furiously, scowling, and backed away from his golden blond host. "What on earth prompted all this?"

"Oh." Holy Rome looked down at the ground. "I'm just so…_horny…_"

England turned and ran screaming out of the tent. "Prussia! Prussia! Help me!"

…

_The anagram was "Horny Golden Male."_

_I'm afraid that as long as I keep finding embarrassing anagrams for Holy Rome, he's going to keep getting these awkward chapters._


	35. Chibitalia and Holy Rome

_Don't worry. This is a cute one. Weak, but cute._

…

**Chibitalia/Holy Rome.**

"Oh, Holy Rome!"

"Oh, Italy."

"Oh, Holy Rome."

"Oh, Italy."

"Would you two please get out of here? I want to play the piano!" Austria was fuming.

Holy Rome leaned over to whisper. "Come on, Italy, come to the kitchens; I have an idea for cooking."

"Mm, I'm hungry, Holy Rome. Yes, let's go cook together." The two small nations walked quietly to the kitchens.

Holy Rome stood on a stepstool to reach a cookbook.

"What are we cooking today, Holy Rome?" Italy looked up with sleepy eyes.

"I –uh –" Holy Rome hoisted the large cookbook down onto the floor and opened it. "I found the recipe and materials to cook a Spanish dish, called 'chili.' I thought we could try it. It has tomatoes and spices and meat."

"Do you eat it with pasta?"

"I – I'm not quite sure. But maybe we could try it? I don't see why it would be a problem. Tomatoes and pasta always go together, right?"

"Yes! Oh, boy! Thank you, Holy Rome!" Italy jumped up and down, squealing with delight.

Holy Rome took his hat off and set it on the floor to begin leafing through the cookbook. "Now listen, Italy. We need to do this right or Austria will be very angry, you know, if we mess up the kitchen."

"I completely understand. What do we need?"

"First, some tomatoes." Italy fetched some tomatoes and they set them on the countertop, using stools to reach the high surface. Holy Rome read out the other ingredients, which Italy found and put on the countertop as well. Eventually Holy Rome hoisted the book onto the counter for easy reading so they could work together, leaving his hat on the floor.

"Oh! May I wear your hat while we cook, Holy Rome?"

He turned bright red at the thought of Italy wearing his hat. "I – um – you – oh, Italy." He ran right out of the room, leaving his hat on the floor.

"I wonder if that means yes or no?" Italy wondered, not daring to put the hat on.

After a few minutes of dithering in the hallway, Holy Rome came back into the kitchen. "You – you may certainly try on my hat, Italy," he said, blushing furiously, trying to grin. Unfortunately it looked more like a grimace, and Italy opted to leave the hat where it was.

"I – I can't read the cookbook, Holy Rome. It's in German, and I don't know how to read German." Italy looked at Holy Rome with such a sweet glance that the hatless nation once again turned red and ran out of the room, hiding behind the doorway.

"I wonder what's wrong with Holy Rome," he heard Italy say in a weak, shy voice. "Maybe he doesn't really want to cook with me? I know! I'll make some pasta sauce. That will make him happy and I don't need a cookbook for it." Holy Rome peeked around the doorway to see Italy pulling out all the ingredients for a basic pasta sauce, including the already-visible materials for the chili. Holy Rome wanted to help, but didn't trust himself next to Italy; he was afraid he'd start acting like a babbling idiot, or just keep blushing.

Soon a pot was bubbling on the fire, and Italy sat happily on the floor to watch and make sure it didn't boil over. Holy Rome peeked around the doorway again, checking to see where Italy was. When he saw the adorable little kerchief-clad nation on the floor, dreamily watching the pot, he blushed, but came into the kitchen once again.

"Wh-what are you cooking, Italy? You said you couldn't read the cookbook."

"I just used the ingredients to make a pasta sauce. They're almost the same ingredients except for the spices and I didn't need the cookbook. I was very interested in some of those spices; I didn't even realize Mr. Austria would have them in the house."

"People are always bringing him gifts of food things. You – you did a very good job, Italy – it smells _delicious._" Here, the awkward nation turned red again, but did not flee.

"Oh, thank you for saying so, Holy Rome. I hope you will love it! It should be done in about one hour. Can we make some pasta to go with it? Will you stay and help without running away?"

Holy Rome was so flustered that he scooped up his hat from the floor, where it had been lying all this time, and busied himself putting it on and straightening it. "Of course I will help," he finally answered.

"Yay! Cooking with Holy Rome! That's happy."

Holy Rome sat down several feet away from the fire and twiddled his thumbs. For Italy's sake, he hoped this meal would be good. It did smell good. And he was getting really hungry, now.

In a few minutes, lulled by the heat of the fire, he saw Italy lie down on the floor and…it seemed…fall asleep. Holy Rome spent a few moments contemplating that cute sight and then lay down – still quite a ways distant from Italy and the fire – and went to sleep himself.

A few hours later they were awakened by Austria's bellowing. "What have you two done? My best pot, ruined, because you left it on the fire too long! Get out of the kitchen! No supper for you!" He chased them both out of the kitchen, brandishing a long-handled spoon. "And stay out!"

…

_The anagram was "Oh Boy, Chili Material." _

_You may think that is a weak choice of anagram. So do I. But everything else was either dodgy or impossible to work with. There were 83,334 possible anagrams and this was the only one I felt could be used (even for such a vague, weak story)._

_Meanwhile, I must point out how difficult it is to write these two without explicitly calling Italy "he"!_


	36. Spain and Chibiromano

_Having just had Chibitalia, we can't neglect sweet little Chibiromano. Cough._

…

**Spain/Chibiromano.**

"Oi, Spain!"

"What is it, little Lovi? I can't talk long. I have to go fight a naval battle. Would you like me to bring you a present?"

"Yes, dammit! Not tomatoes! Something better." Romano frowned and looked down at the floor.

"Better than tomatoes? That's a tall order, but I'll do my best!" Spain tried to ruffle the boy's hair, but it was covered by a kerchief; he only succeeded in pushing the kerchief awry and irritating Romano.

"Get off!" The young boy fixed the hated kerchief.

"Don't worry; I'll bring you something nice!" Spain turned to leave.

"Whatever!" Romano ran out of the room.

…

"That bastard had _better_ bring me something nice. Not like last time when he brought me a broom. What an idiot." Romano stomped around Spain's large house, eating a tomato and cursing, waiting for his caretaker to return. "I bet even that idiot fratello of mine gets better gifts from Austria. Dammit."

For the rest of the week Romano alternated between a foul mood, convinced Spain would either forget to bring him something, or bring him something stupid…and an optimistic mood, hoping it would be a good gift. Of course, the optimistic moods were few and far between, and not long-lived. But he did have them.

…

When Spain arrived back home, he was battered and weary, but he dragged behind him a two-foot-long, large wooden box with a rope handle. "Hola, Lovi…I brought you your present." He let go of the box and collapsed on the ground.

Romano was torn. Open the present? Or look after Spain? He settled for a cursory, "You all right, bastard?" on his way to the box.

Spain merely groaned. "I hate that pirate," he murmured, pillowing his head in his arms, but Romano wasn't really listening. The young boy was fiddling with the difficult iron latches on the wooden box.

"Dammit! How do you expect me to open this box, bastard?" He kicked the box.

Spain raised himself wearily and turned to the box. "Lovi, don't you even care how hurt I am?"

Romano eyed his protector critically. "You've been worse and lived through it," he said. "Now help me open the damn box."

The older man sighed and reached for the box's latches. "I think you'll love this present, mi tomatito."

"Stop calling me that. What's in the box?"

"You'll see." Spain undid the catches and opened the wooden box lid. Romano peered eagerly inside the box…

…and saw a long, iron _thing_, like a giant metal arrow, with a hole in the back end. "What the hell's this?" he asked, kicking the box again.

"It's a harpoon! Used to catch whales! Isn't that great, Lovi?"

Romano stared at Spain with his mouth well and truly agape. After about two full minutes of silence he finally thought of something to say. "Are you a complete idiot?"

Spain frowned. "What do you mean?" He reached out and patted Romano on the head, trying not to disturb his kerchief.

"You _moron!_ First of all! I can't lift this damn thing!" He kicked it once more.

"That's not a problem, Lovi. You'll get bigger and be able to use it."

"Idiot! Then what the hell am I supposed to do with a whale harpoon? There are no whales in the Mediterranean!"

Spain grinned. "But you can go elsewhere, little Lovi! You can look for whales in the Atlantic! Maybe when you get bigger we can go sail the seas together and you can catch me a whale with your mini harpoon."

"_Mini_ harpoon?" the child spat. "_Mini! _You couldn't even bring me a _real_ harpoon? What is this, some kind of fucking kid's toy?" His face grew redder and redder as he got angrier. He was too angry to even kick the harpoon box at this point; his little hands clenched into fists as he glared up at Spain.

"You just said you can't even lift the mini one! What would you do with a real one?" Spain laughed and pinched his cheek. Romano scowled at him and moved away.

"Grr. You are a monumental idiot, Spain. This isn't even a cool harpoon! It's so _plain._"

"Well, it's a very basic one, Lovi. I wasn't sure what kind would be best for you. I thought you could start with this one and then when you got better at whaling, you could upgrade to a fancier one."

"AAAaah! I really hate you!" This time Romano kicked Spain in the shin and stood glaring at him. "Do you think I want to make a _career_ out of whaling? You have the stupidest ideas in the _world_!"

"Lovi, I don't understand what's making you so angry," he smiled. "I brought you a present, better than tomatoes, and all you can do is find fault?" He sighed, still smiling. "I wish you'd calm down a little."

"Forget it, bastard. I can't look at this stupid mini, basic, toy harpoon and be calm! I'm going to my room." Romano stomped off in a serious snit.

"Don't you want to take the harpoon with you?" Spain easily lifted the box and held it out. "I can put the lid back on if that will make it easier for you."

"Chigi! But, yes, all right. Put the lid back on."

Spain did so.

"Now go away. I don't need you watching me struggle with this damn box."

Spain shrugged and walked out of the room, but hid behind the door to peek out at Romano.

Romano patted the closed box a few times. Then he scowled, picked up the rope, and began – with great difficulty – to drag the box to his room, grumbling under his breath. "Fucking bastard."

But he put the box next to his bed, opening it and stowing the lid under the bed. He patted the heavy harpoon with a tiny smile, every morning when he woke up, and every night before bed.

…

_The anagram was "Mini Basic Harpoon."_


	37. America and Spain

_Welcome to "A Confluence of Idiots," or…_

**America/Spain.**

Two men awoke face-down on the cold tile floor of an empty classroom. "Ow," the blond said, clutching his head and rolling onto his side. He removed his glasses for a moment and rubbed his bright blue eyes, then replaced the glasses. As he scanned the room slowly, in confusion, he heard a deep voice behind him.

"Eh? What's going on here?"

"What?" The blond sat up.

"Where are we?" asked the other man, dark-haired, with a heavy accent.

"Who are you?"

"What?"

"Look, ow, this conversation is going nowhere. Who _are_ you?" He frowned at the other man.

The dark-haired man thought for a moment. "I – I don't know!" He looked alarmed and confused. "Who are _you_?"

"I…don't really know, either." The blond scratched his head but this apparently made it hurt. "Ow."

"Well, then, what are we doing here? Maybe we can answer that?" The dark man sat up slowly, green eyes scanning the room. It was empty of everything except desks. No decorations on the walls, no chairs, no blackboard. Just an empty, industrial-looking room, filled with empty, industrial-looking desks. One wall had a full-length mirror on it. He absently crossed to it and began fixing his hair.

"Well, I don't know, do I? If I can't even remember my own name. Bollocks."

"What?" The dark-haired man jumped away from him in fear. "Did you just say 'bollocks'?"

The blond frowned. "Well, yeah, but…I don't know why. It's not a word I usually use."

"But how do you know? If you don't know who you are?"

"I just know, all right? It's a word I hate, and it makes me angry, but I don't know why I said it. It just seemed like the right word at the time, okay?" Then, in a more conciliatory tone, "Why, do you usually say it?"

"N-no," his companion replied. "It's a word I hate, too, and it makes _me_ angry…but I don't know why."

They got up somewhat nervously and began to explore the empty classroom, which took about thirty seconds. The windows were all permanently closed. They couldn't see a door.

"How are we going to get out of here?"

"What difference does it make? If we don't know who we are, or why we're here, dude, then why should we bother escaping?"

"Did you just call me _dude_?"

"Mm, yeah, I guess so. Why, is that another word you hate?" The blond smirked. "You're pretty _sensitive_."

"Come on; stop babbling and let's figure out how to get out of this room." They bent their efforts to escaping the room but as before could come up with no real options.

The dark-haired man sat on the floor again. "Might as well sit down and rest, amigo."

"What?"

"What do you mean, what? I said sit down and rest!" He beamed at the blond. "Relax a bit. Have a siesta."

"How can you relax? We don't even know who we are!" The blond's voice was getting a bit hysterical.

"Come here, amigo, and relax. There's nothing we can do about this until we either remember who we are, or until a door appears. Sit and conserve your strength."

"Why do you keep calling me 'amigo'?" The blond came and sat on the floor next to his companion. "What does that even mean?"

"I don't know. It's just a word I use."

"I have this feeling I know that word, but…I can't remember."

"Me neither."

They sat next to each other for about an hour, in silence, waiting for something to happen.

Eventually the blond said, "We could try to break a window by throwing a desk at it."

"And then what? Where would we go? Do you have any money?"

"Oh! Maybe we have something in our wallets to say who we are?"

Both men hastily pulled out their wallets, which had no identification at all in them, just some miscellaneous cash.

"Huh, just three dollars," the blond said.

"Dollars? My wallet has Euros!"

"Well, that makes sense, duh, because you _do_ speak with an accent."

"I do not speak with an accent, idiota! My Spanish is perfect!"

The blond stared at him in amazement. "We're speaking English, dude."

"We are? Huh. I wondered why your Spanish accent was so goofy."

They stared at each other, astonishment slowly turning to anger. "You really are an idiot," the blond finally said. "I can't believe you've been speaking English all this time and thinking it was Spanish."

"Listen, _dude," _the brown-haired man laughed, "at least I know I _am Spanish._ You don't know anything!"

"Pfft. I know a lot of stuff."

"Sí, like, _what your name is?_ I don't think so!" He started laughing at his irritated blond companion, who scrubbed his hands through his hair in exasperation. Then he got up, walked over to the mirror, and fixed his hair again.

"Seriously, we can't sit around here all day. I'm hungry."

"You look hungry."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know, do I? I'm just talking to listen to the sound of my own lovely Spanish voice. Would you like me to sing to you?"

"Ha ha. Come on; let's start throwing desks at the windows."

The Spanish man reluctantly got to his feet. They each picked up a desk and hurled it at the nearest window.

The desks recoiled and bounced into the men. "Ow!"

"What an estúpido idea. Your ideas are worthless, amigo." He rubbed the forming bruises on his arms.

"I don't notice you coming up with anything. _Dude_."

Just then there was a scraping noise from behind the full-length mirror.

"Aah!" yelled the blond, jumping behind his companion and holding him for protection.

But…"Aah!" yelled the brunet, backing away from the mirror.

The two of them backed all the way into the opposite corner of the room, teeth chattering, holding each other in fear, as the mirror swung forward on hinges. What sort of terrifying apparition was coming through the mirror?

"What the hell are you wankers doing in _here_? Come on, we have a meeting to go to!" He turned to exit through the now-open door.

"Iggy?"

"Inglaterra?

The two trapped men looked at each other and started laughing loudly. "Oh, Spain, man, it's you!"

"And you too, America!" They stood laughing together for another minute, arms around each other's shoulders, before pushing past the irritated England and heading into the meeting.

…

_The anagram was "Amnesiac Pair."_

_I've never had amnesia, but many of my conversations end up like this one nonetheless._

_I really wanted the mink to be the apparition behind the door, but…it just didn't work for the story. I'm sure that mink will make another appearance, though._

_All my favorite shoes are from Spain._


	38. Romano and America

**Romano/America.**

"Hey, Romano!" America stood in the doorway, bearing two shopping bags.

"What are you doing here, bastard?"

"Just dropped by for a visit. I heard Prussia and Germany crashed your robot into Switzerland, so I brought you some cookies as a consolation prize."

"Uh…come in…and – tell me about my, a, what?"

"I told you I was sending you a robot, right? Well, I must have programmed the autopilot wrong, because it ended up at Germany's house. He and Prussia were trying to fly it here for you, but they ran out of fuel and the robot crashed into Lake Constance and sank."

Romano stood in the foyer with his mouth agape for so long that America finally jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow. "Hey. Are you all right?"

"Nh. Yeah, I guess. Wow. That's…an interesting story. Come in." Something important to think about later.

They went into the kitchen and America put his bags on the table. "So I brought macaroons and Oreos! I figured you'd like at least one of them."

"Cheh. I hate Oreos, but I can deal with macaroons. Thanks." He handed America a plate. "Put them on the plate." Romano made some espresso while the blond handled this task.

When he brought the cups to the table, America was seated and waiting attentively for his snack. "Uh…thanks for trying, with the robot, bastard. I guess I'm…sorry…that it sank."

"Oh, no worries. I was in a good mood that day. Hey, watch this!"

Romano was still thinking about the robot, and so he didn't really notice when America threw a macaroon into the air and caught it in his mouth.

"Romano! You didn't even see my awesome macaroon catch!"

"Sorry, bastard. Got a lot on my mind. What?"

"I said, watch this!" America tossed another macaroon into the air and caught it in his mouth.

"Heh. Good catch."

"You try!"

Romano blushed. "I'm not really good with that sort of thing." He fiddled with the handle of his espresso cup.

"Well, here, let's try this! I have pretty good aim. You just sit there with your mouth open, and I'll throw a macaroon into it."

"Chigi! I don't want to sit here looking like a fish with my mouth hanging open!" Romano drank some espresso to hide his irritation.

"Aw, come on. Just once?"

The pleading look on America's face was so pathetic that Romano gave in. "All right, bastard, just once. Make sure you get it right in my mouth. Maybe we should check first to make sure these macaroons will fit. If they're too big, you'll never get one in." He picked up a macaroon and experimented before eating it. "Yeah, they're fine. Okay, aim a macaroon at me." He sat back in the chair with his mouth open and America pitched a macaroon right in.

"Yes! He shoots, he scores!"

Romano chowed down the macaroon with a grin. "Good job. I didn't really think you could be that accurate."

"Want to try again?"

"Sure, hit me."

America tossed another macaroon and it easily landed in Romano's mouth.

"You're really good at this, bastard."

"Good thing you like macaroons! Want to try pitching one at me?"

"Huh, well, I don't know. What if I miss? These delicious macaroons shouldn't end up on the floor."

"Yes, but, I'm not just good at aiming, I'm also good at catching! If you aim it at me, and you're off a little, I can move to catch it."

"You're serious? All right, I'll try." He picked up a macaroon, weighing it in his hand and trying to judge the distance and angle to America's open mouth. He held onto the cookie for a little bit too long, because America looked very silly sitting there with his mouth agape, and he wanted to laugh about that later. Then he realized he'd probably looked just as silly when America had been aiming macaroons at him, so he stopped staring and threw the macaroon.

His throw went wild and was about to shoot past America's ear, when the blond leaped out of his chair and snapped it up in mid-air. "Whoa, Romano," he said, with his mouth full. "For somebody who's so good at soccer, your throwing skills need work."

"It's _football_, dammit, and I…I was distracted by you sitting there with your mouth hanging open. Let me try again." He picked up another macaroon. "Ready?"

America nodded, mouth open once again.

Romano tried to fling the macaroon a little more accurately, and he succeeded. This time it was only about to bonk his guest in the forehead. The blond sat up straight and snatched the cookie out of the air as it approached. "Better," he mumbled, chewing the cookie. "Let me try."

Romano dutifully opened his mouth and let America throw a macaroon in. He ate it. "My turn." He picked up another macaroon and tried very hard to aim it properly. And it went in, without too much maneuvering on America's part.

"Great work, Romano! See, a little practice is good work. Throw another one; these are delicious."

"How many did you bring, bastard?"

"About fifty. I cleaned out the shop."

"Wow." Romano was quite surprised.

"Well, I wanted to make up for you losing that robot…and it was a pretty fancy robot."

The less said about that robot, the better, Romano considered, and he flung a macaroon at America with no warning, to distract him. The blond caught it and ate it.

"Bastard, how? You weren't even expecting that!"

"I told you, I'm good!"

They spent the next half hour tossing macaroons into each other's mouth. Romano began to loosen up and even laugh a little.

It was his turn to throw a macaroon. America sat with his mouth dutifully agape, waiting for the cookie, and looking up at the ceiling. Romano picked up a macaroon, weighed it, looked to calculate distance, and as the macaroon left his hand, a loud "What?" came from the doorway.

America missed the macaroon and it hit him in the head. "Ow." Both he and Romano looked to the doorway to see Prussia staring at them in disbelief.

"Kesesese! Can I play too?"

…

_The anagram was "Macaroon Aimer."_

_America is so useful for these goofy things. And his pleading look trumps everyone._


	39. Prussia and England

**Prussia/England.**

"Arthur, haven't you hung up those curtains yet? Come on, I thought we were going shopping for Christmas decorations."

"Yes, hold on, you git. I'm almost done. Hey, take a look in those boxes over there and see if there's anything in particular that I'm missing; you know, typical Christmas decoration stuff." He flapped a hand at some boxes in the corner, which Gilbert went to investigate.

"It all looks like pretty good stuff, except maybe you need some tinsel or other garlands. Do you like the greenery type, or the tinsel type?"

Arthur had to get this done. He'd put it off for three months! He finished hanging the teal charmeuse drapes on the last kitchen window and turned to his friend. "I don't mind either way. Why don't we go out to the shops; we should be able to find something good."

"Kesesese, that's fine with me." They got their coats and shoes on and left the house.

"Just remember, git. None of your shenanigans. I don't want us getting thrown in jail because you're prancing around the Christmas store naked, or whatever."

"Sour old man."

They went straight to the largest Christmas ornament store in the area. It was bustling; there were so many people there that Arthur almost decided not to bother. But then he realized he'd need to get garlands sometime, so they might as well buy them, since they were here.

"This way, Gilbert." He led the albino by the hand through the madding crowd to the second floor, where the fake trees and other fake greenery were sold. "Help me find the garlands."

They walked together around this floor, which was much more deserted than the lower floors where the tree ornaments and other knick-knacks had been. Eventually Gilbert spotted the section with the garlands and they walked over to investigate.

"Did you want tinselly ones, or greenery?" Gilbert held up a silver tinsel garland that had fallen out of its package. "This one is pretty nice. Feel it! It's sort of silky. Like your new curtains." The two of them stroked the silky garland for a moment.

"Yes, it is nice. I don't know if I want to buy garlands for the tree, or to decorate the house."

"Why not both? You have the money, right?"

"Yes, yes…I can afford both. Yes, all right. Let's pick out two tinselly ones for the tree, and…four greenery ones, for the banister and the kitchen island and the mantelpiece."

"You're going to have such a beautiful house this Christmas, Arthur."

"Thanks! I appreciate your help with it."

"Wow! Look at this!" The albino picked up a package with a faux spruce garland in it. It had multicolored LED lights on it. "This is _awesome~, _Arthur. You should get this one."

"Look, I really don't need those flashy things. Just plain greenery!"

"I have an idea," Gilbert whispered. He looked around furtively and discovered that they were completely alone in this section of the store. "Lie down. I want to wrap you up in this LED greenery and turn it on. You'd look so hot."

Arthur smacked him in the face. "Gilbert, I swear, I don't know why I even try these shopping missions with you, you absolute wanker!"

Gilbert rubbed the spot where Arthur had hit him. "Aw. You really are _so sour_. It's not like I was asking _you_ to get naked in the store or anything." Both of them blushed at that. Gilbert got a grip on himself first and cleared his throat. "So, how about this? Why don't you wrap me up in the LED greenery and turn it on? You _know_ I'd look hot. You can take a picture of me with your cell phone and then I'll put the greenery in the package and we can go. Would that work? I'd love to show everyone a picture of how good I looked, supine and wrapped in the fancy garlands."

Arthur stood shaking his head for another minute, but then realized the best way to get Gilbert off this topic was simply to comply, get it over with, and get out of the store. "Yes, all right. Take it out of the bloody package."

"Kesesese!" Gilbert took it out and held one end while he spun in place and Arthur wrapped the garland around him. When he was all wrapped up – looking vaguely like a green, spruce-ey mummy – Arthur helped him to lie down on the floor. Gilbert flashed him a grin and Arthur pulled out his cell phone.

"Oh, man, Arthur, this feels so sexy, all restrained like this with the garland," Gilbert moaned sensually, just to tease him. "Baby, thank you for wrapping me up…it feels so hot..."

Fuming, Arthur merely snapped a picture and reached down to help his friend up.

"Wait! You forgot to turn on the LED lights!"

So Arthur turned on the switch for the battery-operated lights and Gilbert began flashing red, green, blue and orange, as he lay on the floor.

"Aw, yeah!" he crowed, admiring the flashing lights, before slipping back into the faux-sexy commentary. "Arthur, you really know how to get me all _turned on_," he snickered. "When you touch me that way…"

"Shut it, wanker!" Just as Arthur snapped a picture, a clerk came around behind the display.

"Sirs!"

"Aah!" Arthur dropped the cell phone, and it broke; Gilbert merely grinned up at the clerk with his beaming smile.

"Yes?" he asked calmly, as if he weren't lying on the floor wrapped in a flashing piece of faux greenery.

The clerk stammered, trying to ignore the cursing Arthur, who was picking up pieces of broken cell phone. "I…uh…you have to buy that garland now!" she blurted out, fleeing red-faced from this corner of the store.

"Awesome! Hey, Arthur, we have to buy this!" Gilbert struggled into a sitting position and realized what his friend was doing. "Oh. Man, I'm sorry. I'll see if I can get West to give you the money for a new cell phone? Help me out of the greenery."

Arthur, with lips pressed together in anger, threw the broken pieces of his cell phone into the store's trash can and then turned to help Gilbert out of the wrapping. He didn't speak.

"Did you hear what the clerk said? We have to buy this."

"You mean _I_ have to buy it, you sodding git, because you don't have any money!"

"Well…yes."

"Come on then, let's buy it and go back home."

"Kesesese! You have a camera at home, right? We could take another picture!"

"No, we can't."

"Arthur," his friend crooned, helping fold the garland into its package, "I could wrap myself up _naked_ in the garland…in your discreetly-curtained kitchen…and you could take a picture?" He grinned evilly.

Arthur didn't look at him, but his face turned bright red. "J-just come on, wanker, bring the package, and let's go home!"

…

_The anagram was "Supine Garlands."_

_I want to go shopping with these two! But I don't want to be a clerk in the shops they go to._


	40. Romano and Prussia

**Romano/Prussia.**

"Hey! Albino bastard!" Romano came into the front yard and saw Prussia laying large oval chunks of sod into the lawn. Hmm…right about where the robot's feet had been…he laughed under his breath when he realized that.

"Hi, Romano. What's up?" The albino eagerly stopped what he was doing to come talk to his friend.

"Well, I have actually a couple of things I want to discuss with you. Come and sit down."

"Want to come in for a beer?"

"Sure, bring me a stupid potato bastard beer. But I don't want to come inside. Sit down out here with me and tell me about this robot business." He sat on the steps, waiting for Prussia to come back with a beer.

When he returned, with two beers, Prussia sat down on the front steps with his friend.

"First of all, what's all this about America and a robot?" Romano had decided to play this one ignorant of _any_ robot knowledge. He'd phoned England and sworn him to secrecy about the flight from Rome to Berlin.

"What…uh…what do you mean?" Prussia began to fidget and look a little guilty.

"I think you know what I mean. America said he sent me a robot, but that you destroyed it! What the hell happened?"

Prussia explained, with a lot of stammering and apologies, how he and Germany had discovered the robot on their lawn, learned of its true destination from America, and had attempted – "totally in good faith, Romano, I'm completely serious" – to fly it to Rome for him, but had lost control when the fuel ran out. "So it's at the bottom of Lake Constance now. I'm really, really sorry. It was an awesome robot. And I mean, it was _super_-awesome. I, I was actually going to ask you if you would give it to me, that's how great it was."

"Give you a big giant robot? Huh." Romano had no idea how to respond to that one, so he sat quietly for a moment. "Lake Constance is in Switzerland, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Do you think Swissy will dredge it up?"

Prussia leaped to his feet. "Wow! I hadn't thought of that, but I bet he will. He won't want it to be polluting his lake. Kesesese, now I can get my robot back!"

"_Whose_ robot?"

"Uh."

"Well, whatever, bastard. _If_ Swissy dredges it up, you can have the damn thing. It's probably going to be too ruined to work properly anyway, after sitting at the bottom of the lake for so long."

"Yeah, but it will make an awesome lawn ornament."

Romano snorted and sank his head onto his knees.

"I, uh, maybe I shouldn't ask this, but…you said you had a couple of different things to talk to me about?"

Romano looked up again and took a deep breath. "Yeah. This is actually a lot more important than the stupid fucking robot."

"Whoa! All right, hit me."

The half-nation looked out at the horizon. "I…kind of heard a rumor that you and England have been…uh…"

"What? Arthur? We went shopping last week for Christmas ornaments. That's the last time I saw him; before that it was back in the fall; we went shopping for draperies for his kitchen." Prussia too stared at the horizon and let out a little snickering "kesesese" under his breath as he thought about those occasions. "So what is it you wanted to know about him?"

"Uh."

Prussia looked at him with an innocent expression, but Romano knew he could put that expression on at will. _Were_ Prussia and England – involved? He almost didn't want to ask, but on the other hand he really needed to know. If England was fooling around with someone else – and dammit, if it was the stupid albino potato – Romano needed to get out, and fast.

But then, if he and Prussia had only seen each other twice in the last few months…for shopping trips? "What exactly happened on these shopping trips?" he asked warily.

"Kesesese! On the first one, we had a great time looking at silky curtains for his kitchen! We wrapped ourselves up in them like togas and talked about how sensual they would be if they were sheets. We even wrapped up together in a curtain, and the clerk came by and surprised us. She ran off in a hurry! And Arthur was so embarrassed. He didn't even remember to buy any curtains!" Prussia laughed a little about that.

"Uh…and the other shopping trip?"

"Oh, that. Pfft. We went to buy garlands for his Christmas tree." Prussia snickered a little more about that one.

"Wh-why is that so funny?"

"I made him wrap me up in a garland and take a picture of me, and a clerk saw us, and she made him drop his cell phone and break it. That was pretty funny. We had to buy the garland, in the end. He hung it on the mantelpiece in the parlor. Why are you so interested in this? Wondering if you'd be safe, if you went shopping with him?

"I – heard a rumor about you two."

"What rumor? The awesome me always loves being the topic of rumors, you know that."

"Bastard, shut up. Don't you get what I'm saying? I heard that you and England were – were –" Romano just couldn't make himself say it.

"_What_? That sour old man? Where did you hear such a rumor?"

"F-from Spain." Is it possible Spain had been messing with him? Or jumped to conclusions?

"Oh, yeah, I told him about those shopping trips, him and France, but I don't know why he would think we were…you know, _dating_. Forget it! Iggy's fun to hang out with, but boy, anybody who wanted to _date_ him would have to be a complete lunatic!" Prussia began cackling.

Romano calmly poured the rest of his beer over the albino and then whacked him on the head with the bottle, leaping up and storming out of the yard.

"Hey! Hey, Romano! Wait, come back, what's the matter with you?"

…

_The anagram was "A Passion Rumor."_


	41. Switzerland and Prussia

**Switzerland/Prussia.**

"Hi, Swissy! Man, it's a long time since I've seen you."

"Hello, Prussia. Come inside. Are you here for the competition?" Switzerland stood back to allow the albino entrance to his home.

"Competition? What? No. The awesome me didn't know about any competition. What are you competing about?"

"Today is the annual Swiss Sandals Design Contest."

"Sandals Design Contest," Prussia stated flatly.

"Don't be rude about it, Prussia. If you would like to see the entries so far, you may come and look at them. But please do not be rude. Many people put quite a lot of effort into designing new styles of sandals for this competition."

"I understand. I can be polite when I have to be. I bet there's an awesome prize, huh? How many people entered?"

"About twenty, I think. Liechtenstein's been keeping track of the entries, not I. So…why are you here?" Switzerland was quite wrapped up in the sandal competition and didn't feel he needed the distraction of Prussia, but didn't quite know how to get rid of him.

"Kesesese! I just wanted to come for a visit, but it's awesome that you are having this competition. Can I help you judge?"

"Well, Liechtenstein is going to help, and possibly Austria, but you may certainly provide whatever input you feel is necessary." Maybe he could palm Prussia off on Austria? Yes.

"What about Hungary?"

"Hungary entered the design competition, so she cannot be a judge."

"Oh, I see." The two of them walked into the spacious back yard, where long tables with various sandal styles were set out in the bright sunlight. "Whoa, Swissy!"

Switzerland idly removed a gun from its waist holster. "Please do not call me 'Swissy,'" he said, lazily examining the gun in such a way that it pointed right at Prussia.

"Uh, right. Switzerland. Got it."

The Alpine nation smirked just a little and holstered the gun again.

"May I look at the sandals?"

"Certainly. Just do not touch them, and do not make disparaging commentary about the artists' work."

"Of course not. I told you already, I can be polite when I have to be."

Switzerland stood by the house as he watched his guest wander around the yard, looking at the sandals and occasionally bending down to peer at the detail. "These are all really awesome! Hey, Swiss—Switzerland, can I enter the contest?"

"It's a bit late for that. You'd have to have a finished pair of sandals on the table in one hour." He smirked at his guest again, pleased to be able to thwart the albino's random desire to interfere.

"I can do that! Seriously. Just let me loose in the woods for a bit. I'll be back in forty-five minutes with a pair of sandals! Kesesese! I'm going to win the no-doubt-awesome prize!" Prussia ran off into the woods without even waiting for his host to reply.

While he was gone, Switzerland spent some time looking at the sandal displays. Liechtenstein came out, with Hungary, and they looked at the designs; Hungary's had a cheetah painted along the side of each one.

Austria arrived and joined them.

Germany and Veneziano showed up. Veneziano had entered a pair of sandals in the competition; these had tigers painted on them. Liechtenstein was quite intrigued by his excellent depiction of the big cats.

America arrived. His designs looked like robot shoes.

Denmark was not planning to come, but had entered a pair of mink sandals in the contest. Norway had sent sandals made out of wooden planks. And Canada's looked like little panda bear shoes.

England and Romano arrived together. England's sandal design was very festive, with faux greenery and flashing LED lights. Romano's sandals were caligae encrusted with coffee beans.

Japan had also entered sandals in the contest, but he wasn't coming to the judging. His also had a robotic theme. They looked like robotic dog booties.

France and Spain came, not having entered anything, and almost immediately moved to the side of the yard for a siesta.

Lastly came Poland and Lithuania; Poland had entered a pair of strappy pink high-heeled sandals, and Lithuania had braided primitive sandals out of the grass used in hula skirts.

The competition was about to begin, and there was still no sign of Prussia.

"I declare this competition—" Before Switzerland could say "open," Prussia came pelting out of the woods with two sandals he'd created from tree bark and grasses, with little Edelweiss threaded into the design.

"Wait, wait! My awesome sandals need to be entered!" He put them on the table where Switzerland indicated and moved to the side, panting with relief. "I can't wait to see what the prize is. It's bound to be fabulous."

"I declare this competition open!"

Liechtenstein, Switzerland, and Austria, as the judges, wandered around the tables of sandals, discussing in low tones the merits of each pair. Right away they eliminated both pairs of robot shoes, since they were not technically sandals. England's and Romano's designs were also knocked out of the competition fairly quickly.

Eventually all the designs were eliminated except Hungary's cheetah sandals, Poland's strappy heels, and believe it or not, Prussia's hastily-assembled woodsy footgear.

Liechtenstein argued the merits of Hungary's cheetah sandals. "The cheetah is such a beautiful animal," she sighed.

"But the artwork is not very pleasing," Austria pointed out. "Hungary needs to work on her painting skills."

Switzerland agreed. "But that means Poland's shoes will win the competition. I'm not quite certain that's the type of message we want to send."

The three judges alternated looking between Poland's entry and Prussia's.

"I have to admit that for something he simply threw together out of bark, flowers, and grass, Prussia made a very nice pair of sandals," Austria eventually said. "I wouldn't have expected it of him."

The host turned to look at the albino, who was sitting with France and Spain, but eagerly looking over at the judges. "I hate to give him the prize, Austria. We'll never hear the end of it."

"Maybe we will?" Liechtenstein suggested. "Maybe if he wins, he'll be pleased enough that he won't crow about it?"

"You don't know Prussia," the other two chorused, then exchanged wry smiles.

"Well, why not try it?" Austria finally suggested. "I agree with you that we don't want to give Poland the first prize, and Hungary's design is really not good enough."

Switzerland nodded with a sigh. "That all right with you, little sister?"

"It's fine with me! I just wanted to see all the pretty sandals that people would submit."

So the judges stood at the front of the yard to announce the winners. "It's time to award the prizes," Switzerland said. "First runner up is Hungary."

She squealed and jumped up to hug Liechtenstein.

"Second prize goes to Poland."

Poland stood up, beaming, and shook the hands of both Switzerland and Austria, since Hungary and Liechtenstein were still hugging and squealing.

"And first prize goes to…" Switzerland couldn't make himself say it. He facepalmed and nudged Austria.

"To…Prussia," the dark-haired man managed to say.

"_Kesesese~!_ I am _so awesome!_" He jumped up and ran to hug first Austria – who backed away hastily – and then Switzerland. Prussia managed to pick him up and spin him around a few times before hearing the quiet click of a safety catch; the albino set him down and backed away a little. "Fabulous! What's the prize?"

"Two pounds of wurst."

"_What?"_

…

_The anagram was "Sandal Prize is Wurst."_

_I realize that in any sane real-world competition, Veneziano would likely have won (or, Romano would have come up with a less-stupid design and won), but…this isn't the real world…and it's not necessarily sane, either. Liechtenstein probably argued pretty persuasively for Hungary to be in the top three, since there were cheetahs in the design. And Hungary did that on purpose, of course, to bias Liechtenstein in her favor._


	42. Germany and Spain

_Please be kind enough to disregard any continuity problems with the time of year up to now! I know Gilbert and Arthur recently went shopping for Christmas garlands, and two chapters later we were having a sandal competition outside in Switzerland! Sorry. I'll try to be more attentive to this in future chapters. Let's make it summertime now and go from there._

_..._

**Germany/Spain.**

"Germany, are we really going to pick flowers all day? I don't mind, amigo, but I like to get an idea of what my day is going to be like. If we're going to be picking pretty flowers all day, I want to know about it."

"Yes, Spain," the burly blond sighed. "We need to fill up the back yard with pretty flowers because Veneziano and Romano are coming over, and we want the yard to look nice."

"Very well. Is there any specific type of flower I should be looking for? Or do you just want me to pick every flower I find?"

"No, do not be so indiscriminate! We are looking specifically for flowers that are red or blue."

"Why red or blue?"

"Why not? That is the theme I have chosen for tonight's dinner."

"Is this a surprise dinner? Does Romano know about it?"

"I believe I have effectively managed to keep it a secret from him."

"Oh." Spain shrugged and began to look around the meadow for flowers that were either red or blue. "Hey, there are a lot of poppies over that way. I'm going to go pick some."

"Very well. I'll keep looking for blue flowers."

The two split up and each took an empty basket to pick flowers. Spain wondered whether this dinner would be a success. Sometimes Romano could be downright touchy.

"Hey, Germany! If you're out here picking flowers, who's cooking the food? Not Prussia, I hope!"

"No," Germany called back. "I'm having dinner catered. I wanted to make sure we had good pasta."

"Good thinking," Spain answered, and bent to pick poppies.

Soon he had a whole basket full of red, yellow and orange poppies all intermingled. He came back to Germany, who only had half a basket full, but all the flowers in Germany's basket were blue-tinged.

"Such pretty pansies! Germany, these are beautiful!" Spain picked one out of the basket and twirled it idly between his fingers.

"Spain! What are you doing?"

"Nothing, amigo! Just looking at one of your pretty pansies."

"I mean, what are you doing with these poppies? Some of them are orange and some of them are yellow! This will not do. Please sort them out and throw the yellow and orange poppies on the ground. We do not need them. We only need _red_ and _blue_ flowers."

Spain sighed. "Sí, all right." He sat on the grass to begin sorting his poppies. Eventually he had a pile of about ten red poppies (in the basket) and about forty yellow and orange poppies (lying in the grass). "I'm telling you, this seems like a complete waste! Look at all the poppies I picked that are now useless to us."

But Germany was firm. "It does not matter. We are to have only red flowers and blue flowers. Please proceed."

Spain sighed, picking up his nearly-empty basket, and went back to where the poppies were growing. He idly picked red – and only red – poppies for an hour, until his basket was almost full. Then he moved on and picked some bluish pansies.

"How are you doing, Germany? Are we almost done?"

"Is your basket full? Of _red_ flowers?"

"Red _and_ blue! I found a patch of pansies over here." He brought the basket to Germany. "But, well…some of them are kind of deformed, or have holes in them, like they were eaten by bugs."

Germany eyed the pansies critically. "I am afraid we may have to use them anyway," he admitted. "You did very good work with the red flowers, but there aren't that many bluish flowers around to use."

"We could use the orange and yellow ones?"

"No. I have to stick to my theme."

"Suit yourself. Are we done yet?"

The tall blond sighed. "We may as well be. Pick up your basket and let's go back to the house." The two of them departed the meadow in silence, each contemplating the probable success of the dinner, given the serious lack of blue flowers.

When they reached the house, Germany directed Spain to the back yard, where several vases were waiting with water already in them. "Please arrange the flowers nicely. Make sure you get some red, and some blue, in each vase. No vases with all red, or all blue."

"Understood, chief," Spain laughed. Germany went into the house and Spain began arranging the poppies and the pansies (even the mangy ones) into the vases. He tried to fix them up so the mangy pansies weren't visible from the front, but simply provided a blue underpinning to the vivid red poppies.

When the last flower had been placed in a vase, he began carrying the vases around the yard and placing them artistically on tables or in corners, where they would still be visible to the guests.

Germany came out of the house again. "What have you done with the vases?" he barked.

"I arranged them artistically! Look!" Spain gestured with pride to the various vases.

"Argh, those mangy pansies are very irritating to look at," Germany grumbled. "Take them out of the vases and throw them away. I would be happier just with red flowers."

"Want me to go back to the meadow and get all the yellow and orange ones?" Spain offered.

"No, we do not have time. The Italies will be here in half an hour. Just pull out the mangier pansies and throw them – ah, throw them behind a bush somewhere. I've got to call the caterers and find out why they haven't delivered the dinner yet." He went back into the house and Spain began to cull the ragged pansies.

An hour later, Spain was totally done; all the bad pansies had been eliminated. There was no sign of Romano or Veneziano – or even Germany, for that matter. "Hey, Germany?" he called out. "What's going on?"

The blond came stumbling to the doorway. "Oh! Spain! Bad news. The Italies decided to go to the zoo tonight, so they won't be coming to dinner."

_"What?"_

…

_The anagram was "Mangier Pansy."_


	43. America and Russia

_My first time writing Russia (unless you count that silly ending of "Good Grooming"). Please be kind about it, and send me any suggestions for improvements!_

…

**America/Russia.**

"Hello, America! I'm glad to see you. There's something I've been wanting to discuss with you."

"If it's about becoming one with you – forget it, man," America laughed. "I've got other plans."

"No, no, it's not that at all. I heard that you and Prussia went to a cosplay station last time you were here in Japan."

"That's right! Ha ha ha! We were totally awesome samurai!" America grinned as he remembered that spacy night with the albino, which had been so much fun. Except when Prussia had brought up the canapé jar incident...

"Da, that's what I understood. So I wondered if you would like to go there again, but with me? Prussia isn't here this time, and I would like to dress up as a ninja!"

The blond considered this. "That sounds like fun. Do you mind if I choose a samurai costume again?"

"I don't mind that a bit! Okay. I'm looking forward to it. Meet me here after the meeting?" Russia shouldered his pickaxe in a totally non-threatening way.

"Sure, dude. Bring a lot of money! It's expensive!" They split up and went to their seats to finish the meeting.

…

America changed into his samurai costume pretty quickly. The establishment hadn't allowed Russia to bring his pickaxe in; he'd had to leave it at the coat check, but the blond still had a measure of nervousness around his northern ally. He didn't want to be standing around in his underwear too long with Russia lurking.

Russia, on the other hand, took his sweet time changing into his ninja costume. "Can you help me with this?" he asked, holding up a piece. America took it and wrapped it around the lower half of Russia's face, but it slipped off. After a few more attempts, Russia just decided to let it sit around his neck like a scarf.

"Are you ready to go out?" America put on his headgear to complete his samurai costume. His bright blue eyes peeked out from behind his glasses, giving him a very exotic look, for a samurai.

"I have to ask a question," Russia replied. "What if there are a lot of samurai and ninja out there and we get separated? How will we find each other?"

America first commended Russia on his proper use of the plurals for both 'samurai' and 'ninja,' and then thought about the question. "Well, if we're staying together, it shouldn't be a problem, right? Let's work out a story where we are traveling together, and then it won't be a problem."

"A good plan indeed," Russia agreed, and they went out into the role-play zones, looking for an appropriate setting.

…

"This is a _great_ zone!" America yelled. It was a forest zone, densely packed with artificial trees, rocks, and plants. Birdsong was piped in through speakers. "This is beautiful!"

"I agree. Shall we stay in this zone, then?"

"Yes, let's. We just need to figure out our story plan."

"Well…I need to be sneaky, right? If I'm a ninja."

"That's true. But I can't be sneaky; I have too much armor on. Maybe you're my assistant? I'm a high-ranking, heroic samurai, and you've been assigned as ninja backup to guard me."

"I don't like that plan, America," his companion said easily, making America nervous, and also making him thankful that the pickaxe was still stowed with the coat check people.

"But it makes sense. A ninja can't be the warlord. Samurai were warlords. You would be more likely to be my assistant, who is spying out the lay of the land." America beamed, having proven his point.

"Maybe so. But I don't want to be the backup." Russia beamed back…but America knew that smile could conceal a thousand deaths.

"You should have chosen the samurai costume, then."

Russia dithered for about ten seconds longer. "Oh, all right, America. It does make more sense your way. But _do not_ tell anyone that I was the _backup._" He smiled again.

America shuddered. "That's fine. I won't tell." Russia then walked off with a swagger, leaving America to scramble behind him. "Wait, wait! You can't go barging off without me, dude! First of all, what's the story we're doing, anyway?" he laughed.

"Hmm. I think perhaps I am going to conquer a new land and make it—"

"—one with you?" America laughed. "You're the _backup! _You can't go out conquering lands. How about this? I would like you to find six women on this level."

"America! What are you going to do with six women?"

The blond was beginning to get agitated. When Russia started asking hostile questions, it usually meant trouble.

"No, Russia. I don't want six women. I don't want any women. I was just trying to come up with a mission for you. Locate six women in the forest. That's your ninja mission."

"Oh! Yes, I see." Russia nodded. "I can do that. Well, I can _probably_ do that…assuming there are any women in here. If they're all dressed in samurai costumes it might be difficult to tell, unless I just rip the costumes off every samurai I see."

America facepalmed. "Dude, do not rip off any costumes. Just – just stalk around, like a ninja, and see if you can spot six women. _Three_ women." Heck, the sooner they got out of here, the better. "And remember that you have to watch my back, too. I'm the master, and you are the assistant."

"I remember," Russia said pleasantly. "Right. I'm going to guard you, and look for six women. What are you going to do?"

"I'm just going to journey to my new land. Keep up!" America walked off somewhat awkwardly in the unfamiliar samurai suit. Russia followed.

After about ten steps Russia yelled, "There's a woman!" He leaped out in front of his "master" and grabbed someone in a ninja costume. And America had to concede that in the form-fitting black suit, she was either female, or a cross-dresser, so he awarded Russia the point, and they apologized to the woman. She hurried off.

"Russia, don't just grab people. Just point them out."

Russia stood next to America – too close; the blond felt his personal space being invaded, and tried to back away – and smiled. "I'm just trying to do my job…_master."_ Somehow that turn of phrase sounded distinctly sinister, coming from Russia's pleasantly-smiling mouth. But America was heroic. He'd deal.

"Y-yes," he stammered. "Please proceed."

The two of them walked on, and when Russia spotted another woman, this one in a geisha costume, he merely pointed her out, and America gave him the point.

"You know, America…this is almost too easy." He stood within the blond's personal space again, and his grin looked slightly more feral. America could feel himself getting more and more nervous, but didn't speak.

"Don't you think so?" Russia reached out a hand and slid it around the front of America's throat threateningly.

"Russia, man, what are you doing? Let go!" He was too nervous to struggle, and Russia simply leaned in close, still with that innocent grin. America felt tears leaping to his eyes, but he _would not_ let them fall. He got more and more tense, waiting for something to happen…America couldn't look away from Russia…and then the taller man gave him a tiny little kiss on the forehead of his samurai helmet.

Russia stepped back, and the release of his tension was so great that the tears did fall from America's eyes.

"Don't cry, America. Come. Let's go back to the hotel. I think this is too stressful for you."

America dried his eyes and they walked to the locker room together, without speaking.

…

_The anagram was "A Samurai Cries."_

_Poor America._


	44. Russia and France

**Russia/France.**

"Mon ami," France said diffidently, "I'm glad you were able to come to the opening of the new museum." He was pleased that Russia hadn't brought his pickaxe or any weapons. Some of the items in the new museum were extremely fragile, and he hadn't looked forward to telling Russia that he'd have to leave his weapons at the coat check.

"Da," Russia agreed. "It is always pleasant to visit such an interesting collection of items. It makes me wonder whether I should plunder the place and take everything back to Russia with me." He smiled, and France was not certain whether his old ally was joking or not joking. He decided to treat it as a joke, to keep everything friendly.

"Ha ha," he said easily. "Come along and look at the rare spoons." He led Russia to the Spoons Room, which contained rare spoons from almost every era of France's history, beginning with the primitive bone spoons carried by Gaulish warriors and including at least one spoon from the reign of every king of France since Louis I, son of Charlemagne. Several of the more modern spoons were made of futuristic materials, such as carbon fiber or Kevlar.

"This room is quite interesting," Russia said. "We of course have many interesting spoons in my country as well. But no one has ever thought of putting them all together in a museum before."

France jittered a bit. Was that a dig at his country? "Spoons are easily portable and have been hoarded by people for centuries. Many of these are from my own personal collection." He tossed his flowing blond locks unconcernedly. "Come along! The next room is the Nature Chamber."

In the Nature Chamber the two of them examined various representational flora and fauna of France. "Yes, very nice," Russia said dismissively. "We have plenty of this type of thing in Russian museums as well; ours have bears and wolves. What else do you have?"

France felt very put-upon. Why hadn't any of his other friends come to the opening of his new museum? Why was he stuck babysitting Russia on this tour, Russia who always scared him a little? "Next we have a chamber dedicated to the art of French crystal-making."

"Oh! That does sound interesting. Do you mean crystals like magicians use for scrying? I am sure that England would be interested in those. Or are they the crystals used by those charlatans who claim to divine the future?" Russia gave France his beaming smile again, and France backed off a bit.

"No, no, mon…ami, this is leaded crystal. Fine tableware." They entered the Crystal Room. The room was blazing with artificial light, and it reflected off the facets of the assorted glassware with astonishing brilliance. Even Russia lost his breath for a moment.

"Beautiful, France. Absolutely exquisite," he eventually breathed. "Like being inside of a beautiful diamond." He walked into the chamber almost fearfully, gently approaching the first large display case, which held beautiful wine goblets. Russia spent some attentive moments reading the labels and learning a bit about the French art of crystal-making.

He and France then moved wordlessly on to the next large display case. This one contained a rather impressive array of crystal oddments like gravy boats, pitchers, and the like. He stared at each one in turn.

France, meanwhile, was _almost_ getting bored. Almost. He knew it wouldn't be wise to allow Russia to wander the museum on his own. This was the day before the grand opening, and they'd been promised the place to themselves, so he wasn't worried about his old ally causing trouble with patrons, just…it didn't seem right to leave him alone.

When Russia walked to the next case, which held large platters, displayed upright – some as big as three feet across – France heard him draw in his breath loudly. "How long has your country been making such beautiful work?" he asked, caressing the glass case lustfully with his fingertips.

The blond began to explain about the history of French crystal-making. Russia listened with half an ear as he gazed longingly at the giant crystal platters. "France, I had no idea you were so artistic with crystal! It is truly amazing," he eventually said.

France began to calm down somewhat under these words of praise. He led Russia to the final display cabinet. This one was filled with beautiful crystal carafes of every size and style. Some were the large, flat-bottomed captain's carafe style, used on ships, where their wide bases prevented spillage as the ships would rock on the ocean's waves. Some were paper-thin with no cutwork at all, delicate shapes that evoked leaves or plants, some with elegant colored blown-glass shapes affixed to the edges or the sides of the carafe.

The bottom of the case held the thicker, more ornate cut-crystal carafes. Russia crouched down to get a better look at them. France, who was losing interest again, stood next to him, staring out the window. Was it beginning to rain? That would be rather sad. This room looked positively brilliant when the sun was shining into it so brightly.

"France," Russia said, standing up quickly. This startled the blond out of his reverie and he jumped a bit. Unfortunately he trod on the end of Russia's long scarf, which caused the taller man to trip; he reached out to France for added balance, but only succeeded in pulling them both towards the display case in his fall.

Russia hit the case first, shattering the glass door, smashing the carafes and sinking to the floor, but France couldn't balance, either, and landed on top of Russia, ruining those carafes that had escaped the taller man's fall. The two of them lay groaning in a mess of crystal shards, bleeding. Both of them began weeping at the loss of so much precious crystalline beauty. France vowed never to socialize with the northern oaf again.

…

_The anagram was "Ruins Carafes."_

_Hmm...perhaps Prussia will come look at the Spoon Room?_


	45. France and Holy Rome II

_Of course, having heard from Prussia that Holy Rome is in a kissing kind of mood, France cannot leave him alone. He's willing to risk a sprain or two._

…

**France/Holy Rome.**

"Hello, little elf! Are you all alone today?" France swept into the house in his blue cloak, beaming.

"Grr. Yes. Austria has taken Italy and Hungary for a picnic, but I did not want to go." Holy Rome tugged his hat lower over his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at his annoying brother.

"What luck, to find you alone," France breathed seductively, reaching for him.

Holy Rome completely missed this cue, walking further into the room and turning his back to France. "What are you doing here?"

"I…heard a rumor!"

"What are you talking about? What rumor? Gah, you're still as irritating as ever; you'll never change. Can't you go away?"

"Well…I could…but, you know, then I wouldn't be able to find out the truth of this rumor, mon ami."

"_What_ rumor?"

"Little elf, Prussia told me you're looking for someone to kiss."

Holy Rome turned bright red. "Is _everyone_ talking about this? I might as well publish a pamphlet and distribute it throughout the universities of Europe! Prussia is an idiot and you are an oaf. Go away."

"So it's true!" France began laughing. "You know you only have to ask. I'd be happy to oblige."

"Irritant. I haven't asked because I don't want to make out with you!"

"That's such a shame. Because you know, I _am_ considered the greatest lover in all of Europe."

"I know that's what they say, but frankly, it baffles me." Holy Rome straightened his hat and tried to leave the room, but France blocked the doorway.

"If you'd give me a chance…you'd see…"

"Eh? Can't you understand anything?" But Holy Rome stopped his arguing and walked over to the divan, sitting down and putting his head in his hands. Maybe he should try to get some real information from France while he was here, instead of relying on Austria's vague explanations. "Oh, France. This is all so difficult."

France came and sat beside him, placing a supportive hand on the back of his neck. "Oui, mon elf, what is it? You do know that maybe I can help you?"

Holy Rome just nodded; he didn't even take offense at the hated term "elf." His hat fell on the floor; this time, he ignored it. "I – I don't want to…with you…but maybe you can help me figure out what to do about it?"

France settled back on the divan. "Well, that depends. Do you want to – do something about it? Not with me, I mean," he added hastily. "Or do you simply want to squelch the feelings? I'm afraid cold baths are the only way to do that effectively."

"I've tried cold baths. They only work for a little while."

"Well, Holy Rome, you can't expect that just one cold bath is going to cure you forever! This is a problem with your hormones. They are constantly being generated in the body, so you'd have to take cold baths pretty frequently."

Holy Rome grunted. Austria was going to get very angry if he spent any more time in the bath.

"You can also exercise more. Are you still doing your exercises?"

"Yes," the little nation grumbled. "But I get distracted. And they don't seem to help with this."

"Let's think about this." France was silent for a few minutes.

This was so unlike him that Holy Rome looked at him objectively. And yes. France was an attractive young man, with his flowing blond locks that nobody else ever seemed able to duplicate. He felt his blood begin to race…but his brain kept shouting denials! Argh, would this confusing feeling never go away? He groaned.

"All right," France eventually said, looking at him. "I'm willing to help you, Holy Rome—"

"I don't want to do anything with you!"

"—but I have to consider who would be your best partner. Since you refuse to accept help from the best." He smirked and waited for an answer, but Holy Rome just glared at him.

"We already know that Austria, Hungary, Prussia and I are out of the running. Italy is too young. What about Angleterre?"

"I tried," Holy Rome said in a tiny voice, turning red at the memory.

France raised his elegant eyebrows, but did not respond to that at all. "Well, then, I wonder whether mon cher Espagne might help with this?"

"Aah! No! Not him. I just got done fighting with him! And he's an idiot."

"What does that have to do with it? If all you want is a little hormone relief?" The taller nation waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Anyway, you just got done fighting with me, too, and yet here we are, alone together in the house, on the big, comfortable divan…"

"France," Holy Rome began in a warning voice.

But his brother ignored him. "You don't have to make sweet conversation with him, you know. Just throw him down and get down to business."

"Argh!" Holy Rome jumped off the divan and grabbed his hat. "That does it, you interfering—I don't even know what to call you that's bad enough. I'll content my racing hormones with cold baths and long runs! Go away." He stomped off, out of the room.

When he got outside the door, he turned to look back at his irritating, cloak-clad brother, who was still sunk in thought. _Spain! _Bah. France had the dumbest ideas in the world.

…

_The anagram was "Racy Elf Hormone." _

_I think what makes me so happy about writing Holy Rome is that he looks so extremely chibi, but he acts pretty grown-up (except in his dealings with Italy). It's also fun to consider that he might grow up to be Germany. I have always wondered why HRE continues to be drawn chibi even at the height of his powers._

_Also, for some reason his hat really makes me absurdly happy. I might make one._


	46. Chibitalia and Chibiromano

**Chibitalia/Chibiromano.**

"Fratello?"

"What do you want, you twerp?"

"Will you cook with me? I have a special new type of cooking device which we can try?" Little Veneziano turned his sleepy face to his brother's and smiled.

"Ah, why should I cook with you? I have better things to do!" Little Romano kicked the couch in agitation.

"What could be better than cooking with your family, Romano? Come along, let's look at my new cooker." Veneziano grabbed Romano's sleeve and dragged his unwilling older brother into the kitchen.

"What the hell is that, dammit?" Romano stood and stared at the large porcelain bowl in the middle of the kitchen. "A chamber pot? What the fuck is it doing in the middle of the kitchen? Dammit, don't you know anything?" He turned to his little brother.

"No, no, Romano! It's called a 'hibachi.' That's for cooking, ve!"

"That's for cooking," his brother deadpanned. "What do you do, boil things in it? That's just stupid! There are no handles, so you couldn't lift the hot pot! Plus, it's very heavy. How could anybody lift a pot like that once it had stuff in it? I think somebody is joking with you, fratello." He turned to leave the kitchen.

"Oh, no, Romano, once again you don't understand."

Romano growled dangerously at these words, but his little brother was oblivious and went on, "You fill that pot with hot coals, and cook the food on top!"

This was unusual enough that Romano calmed down a little and walked over to examine the pot critically. "You're serious? How do you get the food to stay on top?"

"You put a bowl over the opening, I guess. I'm not really sure. But I think it's like making zabaglione, you know? How you put the glass bowl into the hot water to cook it?"

"Yes, yes," Romano snapped, slightly intrigued. "What did you want to cook?"

Veneziano smiled. He'd known Romano would cook with him! "Yay!"

"Shut up! What are we cooking?" He kicked the pot and yelled when it hurt his foot. "Chigi!"

"I thought we could make some macaroni in the pot, and then work on a sauce that we can cook over the fire."

"Yes, all right. Get the ingredients out!"

Veneziano busied himself with ingredients while Romano fetched the bowl and other implements. For a short time there was no conversation, just Veneziano's happy humming and Romano's muttered oaths when something went wrong. Eventually the younger Italy had a large bowl of fresh macaroni, and the elder had a pot of sauce ready to be cooked.

Together they hoisted the large pot over the fireplace to cook the sauce. Then they turned their attention to the macaroni.

"Can you get a bowl, fratello? You're a little taller than I am, so you can reach it better."

"Cheh, yes. Which bowl do you want?"

"Get the glass one. I'd like to watch this cook!"

Romano fetched the large glass bowl. They used the fire shovel to lift some glowing coals out of the fireplace and put them into the strange new bowl. Then they set the glass bowl into the opening, filled it with fresh water, and waited for it to boil.

Both of them were getting a little bored when Veneziano finally decided to peek into the bowl. "Ve, it looks like the coals went out."

"Dammit. What do we do now? We can't lift the glass bowl out, it will be too hot!"

"But we can't just let it sit there! The macaroni will go bad, and it will be a waste!"

"Look, let's just cook the macaroni in a pot on the fire, all right? At least we'll get some edible macaroni out of it!"

"But Romanooooooo…" Veneziano turned his pleading face up to Romano's. "I really wanted to use the new cooking thing! Maybe we can lift the glass bowl out with the fire tongs?"

"You're being idiotic again. But…there's nothing else to try except sit around and wait for the glass to cool off, which would be stupid. Let's try the tongs."

Romano, the (slightly) stronger of the two, fetched the fire tongs and attempted to grasp the edge of the glass bowl with them. Veneziano hovered nearby, fluttering anxiously, making his brother angrier and angrier as he fumbled with the tongs. Eventually Romano set the bowl back into the hibachi and yelled, "Shut up! You're disturbing my concentration!"

"Ve, Romano. I'll shut up." He stood by the doorway, jittering, as Romano very carefully lifted the glass bowl out, and then the water-filled bowl slipped from the tongs and crashed onto the floor, shattering.

"Dammit! Get over here and help me clean this up, moron!"

Together the two of them carefully picked up and discarded glass shards, and then Veneziano fetched a push broom to sweep up the pieces that were too little to handle. Romano stood by with a dishcloth to mop up the water.

Cleaning this up took the better part of an hour for the two little nations. When they were both satisfied that the kitchen was clean, Veneziano put the push broom away and they looked into the hibachi. The coals were glowing again.

"How did that happen?" Veneziano asked. "Did you put new coals into the pot, fratello?"

"Not me. I thought you did it!"

Together they stared in bafflement at the now-glowing coals. "What should we do about it, ve?"

"How should I know, idiot? Ah, let's just put the coals back into the fireplace and cook the macaroni there. All right? I think maybe you don't know how to use that thing right. We should just do it the way we know how."

Veneziano moved to get a pot to cook the macaroni. "You're right, Romano."

"Cheh. I'm always right." He and his brother struggled to put a pot of water on the fire and sat down to relax.

Both of them fell asleep in front of the fire, and when they awoke, the water had all boiled away, the sauce was burnt, and the freshly-made macaroni had dried into a giant glutinous lump.

_"Chigi!"_

…

_The anagram was "Hibachi Macaroni, Boil It." _

_Yes, another weak one, but I really wanted something with 'macaroni' in it for them. I could have used "Hi, I boil a macaroni, bitch," but that didn't quite suit the tone of what I was going for!_

_Veneziano doesn't really understand what he's talking about, when he describes how to use it. Nor do I have any idea where he'd have gotten his hands on a hibachi. I think it is probably anachronistic for their chibi-selves. I also don't quite know where the two of them might actually _be _during this story. Austria's kitchen? Spain's? Maybe this is all one of Romano's bad dreams._


	47. Germany and England

**Germany/England.**

"Thanks for inviting me to your costume party, old chap," England said to Germany over the phone.

"Just – no dressing as a pirate, England."

"_What?_ Why not? That's my signature costume, and it looks so authentic on me!" Well, of course it did. He'd planned to wear his actual old pirate clothing. He looked bloody good in it, too.

"Not imaginative enough, I'm afraid. Please try to choose something that other guests will not have seen."

"Very well." The island nation sighed.

"Are you still planning to come to the party early and help me set up?"

"Of course. I said I would, and a gentleman always keeps his word. What time do you want me there?"

"Let's say six o'clock."

"Do you need me to bring anything?"

"No. Just yourself, and a costume that has nothing to do with pirates!"

…

England arrived at the house with his costume box in hand. "Hello, Germany. Nice to see you again."

"Welcome, England. That's your costume in the box?" He looked at it, intrigued.

"Indeed it is. I'll just stow it in the guest room for now?"

"Yes, that's fine. Come downstairs when you're done; I need help in the kitchen."

England went upstairs and Germany returned to the kitchen preparations. Perhaps too late, he wondered whether it would be – safe – to allow his guest to help with the food. Ah, well, whatever; he needed the help, and England had been the only nation gracious enough to offer. Even his own brother Prussia, who actually lived in this house, hadn't offered. Germany sighed, resigned to taking what help he could get.

When England came back down his host set him to the task of cutting up raw vegetables for the dip. He reasoned that this was something even a bad cook couldn't mess up. He was quite surprised to see the island nation reach into his breast pocket and pull out a pair of glasses.

"You wear glasses, now, England? That's surprising."

"I, uh, I only need them for close-up work, generally, but I'm trying to protect my eyes in case a cut piece of food flips up towards my face." He blushed and put on the glasses. They made him look a little nerdy, Germany considered, being thick black plastic, but he didn't comment. He returned to making his beer-batter chicken while England continued cutting up vegetables.

"How did you realize you needed glasses?" Germany asked idly, as he finished frying the last of the chicken. He put it on the plate to drain and turned to his guest. "And would you like a beer?"

"I'd love a beer. I – well, I was trying to read the stock quotes one day, and realized I couldn't focus properly on the newspaper. That's all. I really do need to get a new pair of glasses, though. These are incredibly ugly, I know."

"They make you look very studious," his host offered, this being the only compliment he could possibly think of.

"Ha. Thanks."

When the vegetables were all cut up – some looking worse than others, but at least all were presentable – Germany directed him to putting punch cups, plates and cutlery on the buffet tables. This England managed with ease, not removing his nerdy glasses.

"The only thing left to do now is to make the punch." Germany got out the punch bowl and ingredients. "This is a very precise type of punch, England, and it's one of the main reasons I accepted your offer of help tonight. I will mix up the non-alcoholic ingredients in the bowl first, but then the Sekt and dark rum have to be added at precisely the same time. So I will pour the Sekt and you can pour the rum. All right?"

"Yes, of course. Dark rum! I may just drink punch all night."

"Please do not, England. I really do not want the hassles of dealing with passed-out guests." Germany ran his hands through his hair before pouring the fruit juices into the punch bowl.

"Are you saying I can't hold my liquor?" The island nation began to get in a flap but Germany waved a dismissive hand.

"I…uh…didn't mean you. I meant, you…uh…would be setting, yes, setting a bad example for the other guests?" He held his breath.

"Ah, of course, old chap, I see what you mean."

_Whew._

"It's time to add the spirits. Are you ready with the rum?"

"Standing by."

Germany uncorked the Sekt and they poised the bottles over the punch bowl. "Now, pour slowly and steadily; try not to agitate the juice mixture too much."

They began to pour their respective bottles into the punch bowl, slowly and steadily, and continued until both bottles were empty.

"Very good," Germany complimented him. "Please place the bottles in my recycle trash. I'll finish the punch." He got out some slices of lime to float on top while England disposed of the bottles.

"Won't it get agitated when you carry it out to the table?"

"I can be careful. Why don't you go and get changed into your costume?"

"Right, as long as you don't need any more help."

"It's fine. Thank you again for coming early to help, England."

"No problem at all."

…

Upstairs in the guest room, England took off his glasses and opened the box for his costume. The costumers had only delivered it this morning, so he hadn't had a chance to check it for completeness.

First he stripped down to his boxers and then pulled a white one-shoulder tunic out of the box. Hmm, it looked a little moth-eaten, especially around the hem, but it would do. He put it on and was surprised to find out it was rather short. Perhaps this was a girl's costume? Well, it was too late to do anything about it now. He could hear guests arriving downstairs by now. At least it covered his underwear.

Next he drew forth a pair of sandals that laced up around his calves. These too looked quite beaten up, but he was able to struggle into them and get them looking correct.

Inside the box the next thing he found was a pair of shabby wings, on a kind of harness. Some feathers were missing from the wings, but overall the effect was rather nice. He buckled the harness on and admired himself in the mirror. Hmm. Maybe if he put his glasses on he'd be able to see better. He did this, and admired himself a little more, while trying to ignore the effect of the glasses.

The only things left in the box were a halo – a bit tarnished – and a magic wand with a star on top. He couldn't quite imagine what an angel would need with a magic wand, but since it was part of the costume, he decided to carry it.

England stood in front of the mirror one last time and checked to make sure he looked all right. Having passed this inspection, he left the guest room and headed down to the party, forgetting to remove his glasses.

Germany was greeting guests. America was there with Japan, and both of them were wearing furry bunny outfits. That was baffling. They had just passed Germany, who stood alone momentarily and looked at his kitchen helper.

"An angel?" he asked in wonder. "That's an unusual choice of costume." He was wearing a samurai costume.

"You wanted me to wear something no one else had seen before!" the island nation laughed.

"Where did you get the costume? It's a bit shabby, isn't it?" Germany inspected the tunic and wings with a critical eye.

"It's from a costume rental place. You can't expect it to be pristine after being rented out for years."

"Why are you still wearing your glasses? Is that part of the costume?"

"Whoops! No, I forgot to take them off. Hmm, and I have no pockets in this tunic. Ah, I'll just leave them on."

"Bastard?" they heard from behind Germany.

And then "Arthur! What the hell? You make the most nerdy, mangy angel ever!"

…

_The anagram was "Mangy Nerd Angel." _

_Poor England. But rental costumes generally are pretty mangy._

_He and Denmark must go to the same optician._


	48. England and Romano II

_Meanwhile, back in Tiaraville..._

* * *

><p><strong>EnglandRomano.**

Arthur and Lovino fled into the night on foot, not stopping even to greet Roderich and Gilbert on their way past. "Where are we running to?" Arthur eventually asked, after about a mile. He was having difficulty running in the long dress, even though he was holding it up high so that he wouldn't trip.

"Away," Lovino replied. "Far away from my idiot brother who wants you for himself."

Arthur was still quite confused about this. "Why does he want me?"

Lovino stopped in his tracks, causing Arthur to stop, and then pulled him off the road into the shelter of a large tree. "Why wouldn't he? You're beautiful." He smiled sweetly and placed his hands on Arthur's shoulders.

Arthur blushed, and was thankful that in the dark, Lovino couldn't see that. "You mean the dress, the tiara…"

"No. I mean you. I've always thought you were beautiful, but…I have to admit that dress is quite stunning on you as well."

The blond twitched the skirt of the hated dress, but then took a deep breath. "That's…very nice of you?" he hazarded. Then his normal nature took over, and he snarled, "If you thought I was beautiful why didn't you ever say anything _before_, you git?"

"Because you're such a bastard!" After delivering that comment Lovino took his hands off Arthur's shoulders and used one to cover his mouth. "Whoops."

But Arthur was resigned. "I know. But so are you. Even if you'd said something, I wouldn't have trusted you enough to believe it." He looked down at his feet in boots, sticking out from under the skirt.

"Well, I said it, and I meant it, and if you can stop being a bastard long enough, maybe we can…be together?" Lovino's eyes were wide in the moonlight.

"Sure. I've always thought you were pretty hot, too." They grinned at each other and hesitantly leaned forward to share their first kiss, when suddenly there was a loud commotion down the road in the direction of Alfred's place.

"Dammit. I bet my brother's coming after you." Lovino grabbed Arthur's arm and they started running again.

"Hey, let go; I need my hands to hold this skirt up." Lovino obligingly let go. "Anyway," Arthur went on, "you don't have to worry about your brother. He's too flaky for me."

Lovino actually started laughing as they ran. "I knew you were right for me. Come on!" They ran on into the night, still pursued by the loud sounds behind them.

In a little while they detoured to the east, cutting through a field. "Stop a minute," Arthur wheezed. "Running in a dress is complete idiocy."

"Why are you even wearing a dress? Are you dating Alfred?"

Arthur snorted. "He wishes. I don't even know why he wanted to put me in this damn dress. We argued for hours, and I only put it on so he'd be downstairs in time to greet the guests. I'm not dating anybody."

"Yes, you are, bastard," his friend corrected.

"What?"

"You're dating _me_ now, aren't you? Or is this whole 'running away into the night' just some kind of joke or exercise for you?" Lovino stood with his hands balled into fists on his hips, looking belligerent.

"Oh! Oh, I see what you mean. All right. I'm dating you. Come on, loverboy, let's get going before your brother catches up." They ran off again, smiling at each other.

"I don't even know why we're running so hard. What's he going to do if he catches us?" Lovino mused. "If you don't want to go with him, he doesn't stand a chance, so…why am I so worried?"

"Beats me, wanker," Arthur laughed. "Let's stop and listen."

There were no sounds of pursuit. However, there was a loud commotion from the other side of the hill that they had been approaching.

"What's going on over there, I wonder?" Lovino asked.

"That's where the local dragon lives."

"_Dragon_? You mean some bitchy old lady?"

"No, an actual dragon. It's the heraldic animal of this area. Protects the villagers and so forth."

"You're _joking._"

"Nope. I've seen it. It's a big, beautiful creature. I wonder what's got it all agitated?"

"Can we go see, bastard? I've never seen a dragon before."

"Why not? We were headed that way anyway." They walked more leisurely towards the hill, and the dragon. "Where were you leading me to, by the way?"

"How the hell should I know? I'm not familiar with this area."

"Oh. Hey, hold on a second. Since we don't have to run, I want to tear off some of this skirt so I don't have to keep holding it up." They stopped and Arthur tore off a long, wide strip from the hem of his skirt, leaving himself exposed from the knees down.

"Combat boots with a dress and tiara? Bastard, you're awesome." Lovino nodded appreciatively before taking his hand again. "Come on."

They rounded the base of the hill and saw the men of the village standing around with torches, eying the nervous dragon, who was standing in the village square, fidgeting and looking around in agitation. When the dragon saw Arthur and Lovino, he stopped fidgeting and stared directly at them.

"Uh-oh," Lovino muttered, staring at it. "Why is it looking at us like that? Does it eat people?"

"No." Arthur squeezed his friend's hand reassuringly. "I think – it recognizes me. I guess by smell…since I'm not usually dressed like this."

Before they could speak further, the sounds of pursuit they thought they'd evaded became louder behind the hill. "Dammit!" Lovino yelled, dragon forgotten, stamping his foot.

"Wait. Come with me and talk to the villagers." Arthur led the disturbed Lovino by the hand down into the village square. The dragon continued to eyeball them, and the villagers stood back to allow the two of them passage.

Arthur bowed to the dragon, making Lovino do the same, and then spoke to the village men. Lovino looked nervously between the big silent dragon and the hill behind them, where they could hear approaching sounds of mounted men and hounds.

Arthur turned back to the dragon and bowed one more time. "He'll be back by morning," he said to the calm village men. "Come on, git." He took his friend's hand.

"Wh- what are we doing?"

"The dragon is going to fly us to safety. Wherever we want to go. Come _on,_ before those other guys get here."

"We're going to _ride the dragon_?"

"Pretty impressive first date, isn't it?" These words of Arthur's seemed to quiet Lovino's burgeoning panic.

"Yeah. Let's get going, bastard."

The dragon bent his head and Arthur helped Lovino climb up to sit behind its neck. Arthur sat in front, and relaxed when he felt his new friend's strong arms encircling his waist. "All right, dragon," he whispered. "Take us to the Hidden Vale."

As the dragon soared instantly skyward and the pursuing party rounded the base of the hill, Arthur felt a shy kiss pressed to the back of his neck, and he reached down to clasp Lovino's hands where they rested on his waist. Tonight, at least, they would be safe.

…

_The anagram was "Men Loan Dragon."_

_Hmm. I like this AU. Maybe it deserves its whole own story, instead of just anagram chapters. Let's see how it develops…_


	49. America and North Italy

**America/North Italy.**

When Feliciano had accepted the fact that Arthur and Lovino had eluded his pursuit, he too turned and followed Alfred, and Roderich and Gilbert, into the party again. Disconsolate, he moved between the tables of food, not quite certain what to do with himself. The musicians struck up the minuet and he sadly watched the albino and his date begin dancing elegantly. Feliciano let out a sigh, and turned to look around the room…and spotted Alfred looking at the dancers with the same wistful expression.

The young Italian immediately made his way to the elegant men's lounge, where he washed off his face and got the worst of the cinnamon bun icing off him, then carefully tried to wash and fix his hair. He'd had an _idea_, and appearing with icing in his hair would definitely detract from the success of it.

Satisfied with his appearance, as much as he could be, he tugged on the lapels of his tailcoat and walked out of the lounge with purpose. Feliciano scanned the room again, locating Alfred, who had moved to a new position, but still had that longing expression on his face.

He crossed to his host and prepared for conversation.

"Alfred, my friend, you look quite sad.  
>Will you dance with me? It might make you glad.<br>Together we can do the minuet  
>And maybe it will help us forget."<p>

Alfred stared at him. "Are you seriously asking me to dance?"

"Ve, dancing can be so much fun  
>For me, for you, for everyone!<br>Come, let's partner each other tonight  
>And do a nice dance, and do it right!"<p>

Feliciano beamed at Alfred with that winning smile that everyone loved. Surely Alfred would agree?

But his host seemed to be lost in thought…that is, until he too beamed, looking down at the smaller man, and said,

"I would love to dance with you! Let's have fun for a dance or two!"

Alfred seemed ridiculously pleased with himself at this successful rhyme. He reached out a hand, which Feliciano took, and they walked onto the dance floor. Unfortunately the minuet was now over, but the dance music changed to a soft, haunting waltz. Alfred raised an enquiring eyebrow, and Feliciano stepped close to him to begin the dance.

They danced without speaking, earning appreciative glances from those around them. Even Gilbert stopped whatever he was talking about, to watch. Alfred's arms were so strong, Feliciano thought. He knew already that he wanted to dance with Alfred all night. Would his poetry be good enough to sway the beautiful blue-eyed blond?

The waltz ended and he smiled at Alfred, who immediately let go of him. "Did you want to keep dancing, Feliciano?" he asked with a smile.

"Since our friends have left the party  
>My spirits are not feeling very hearty.<br>If you will continue dancing with me,  
>Perhaps I'll feel better! Let's try it and see!"<p>

The musicians struck up a sarabande.

"Oh! Alfred, please, _please_ come and dance!  
>The sarabande always puts me in a trance!<br>Tonight my feet feel light as air,  
>You and I make such a beautiful pair!"<p>

Alfred laughed. "With enticement like that, how can I say no? Come on, Feliciano, let's go!" He grinned again and the two of them went back to the dance floor.

Feliciano really did love the sarabande, and he was very, very good at it. Alfred, by contrast, was not so good, but he made a heroic effort and did not really embarrass his partner very much.

When the dance was done, Alfred wiped his forehead with an elegant lace handkerchief. "Would you like to go outside for a little fresh air?" he asked. "It – uh – might make you feel more – uh – fair?"

Feliciano laughed merrily and took his arm.

"A walk in the moonlight would be quite nice  
>We can circle the castle once or twice.<br>We can enjoy the nice nighttime breeze,  
>Which I hope will not make us cough or sneeze!"<p>

Both of them began laughing at that. Alfred led his new friend outside, and they began to stroll, at first wordlessly. Feliciano looked up at the beautiful moon, felt the nice evening breeze and the strength of Alfred's arm supporting him, and thought that perhaps his fratello had done something very, very good tonight.

"This castle is such a beautiful home,  
>There's nothing like it! Not even in Rome.<br>But it's very big for you to live all alone  
>In your giant castle made of stone."<p>

Alfred sighed. "Yes, it's true – do you mind if I just speak regularly?" Feliciano shook his head. "Rhyming is hard for me, unless I sit down to concentrate. But yes. This castle is very big, and sometimes I feel so stressed out, trying to run the place all by myself. I'd hoped that Arthur—" Here he seemed to remember just how much trouble his friend Arthur had caused both him and Feliciano tonight, and scowled, dropping into silence.

"Surely, Alfred, you can understand  
>That if Arthur ran off, taking fratello's hand<br>He was never the man you thought he could be.  
>Instead of Arthur – why not ask me?"<p>

The Italian was a little embarrassed about that last line, but he was feeling quite close to Alfred now, and definitely interested in taking their relationship a little further. They'd only been casual friends up to this point, but his heart was reaching out to his tall blond host.

"Ah, Feliciano, you do me too much honor. I would never presume so much." Alfred appeared to be blushing, but the moonlight wasn't quite bright enough for Feliciano to really tell. "You – you –" He stumbled to a halt.

The two of them were around the back of the castle now, obscured from the view of party guests by a long camellia hedge. Feliciano turned to face him.

"Alfred…you know…I've always found you so very…" Feliciano couldn't quite figure out how to proceed, either. "I know that tonight I was somewhat interested in Arthur…but that dress was so lovely, and the tiara – it was quite distracting. Part of me also wanted to one-up my brother by dancing with Arthur first. But…I was never that interested in Arthur for his own self. I – I –" Here he too lost the will to converse, and simply looked up at Alfred, whose glasses were reflecting the moonlight. Alfred didn't speak. Perhaps Feliciano had been too forward?

"I…believe this is all going a bit too fast," Alfred finally said. "A friendship like you speak of…it should grow slowly, to last. Why don't we take things nice and slow, and…perhaps we can see how this friendship will grow?"

"That's a beautiful rhyme!" Feliciano yelled. Alfred beamed again. Then Feliciano realized he'd somewhat broken the romantic mood. "I – I mean, yes, you're right, we...shouldn't race. I'll allow you to – set the pace? Just let me know how you want to proceed, and I – I'll be whatever kind of friend you need."

"You're wonderful, Feliciano," Alfred said, giving him a little hug. "Thank you. Please allow me to be your escort for the rest of the evening, and then after tomorrow, we can see how things go? I appreciate your candor and your generosity."

"Ve, then let's go back to your guests,  
>I'm sure they're thinking you're taking a rest.<br>If you'll dance with me a little more,  
>We'll have so much fun it will make your heart soar!"<p>

"Why would I want my heart to be sore?" Alfred asked.

Before Feliciano could correct him, he realized his mistake. "Oh. I understand. Yes, come in, let's go and dance…it will be fun to take a chance!"

Arm in arm, they re-entered the party, and began dancing, with great optimism about the future.

…

_The anagram was "A Rhymer in Tailcoat."_

_So if Feli was busy putting the moves on Alfred, who was chasing Arthur and Lovino? Stay tuned!_


	50. Germany and Russia

**Germany/Russia.**

Germany's party was in full swing; guests were flitting about, loudly socializing, eating, drinking, and being merry. Germany's samurai costume was feeling very hot, and rather heavy on his strong frame. He had removed the helmet quite some time ago, after learning that many of the guests could not even tell who was in the costume. He wanted everyone to know which partygoer was the host, in case of trouble.

The blond stepped out into his back yard for some fresh air. The summer night was warm. He took a few deep breaths, idly looking around at those guests who were outside. From where he stood, the only people he could recognize were Poland and Lithuania. Poland was – not surprisingly, perhaps – dressed as Marilyn Monroe, and he'd done an excellent job with his costume. Lithuania was more sedate in a wizard's cloak with a staff. Germany spent some time musing about what it was that made people choose their costumes. He'd only chosen the samurai costume because Prussia had been babbling about it so much recently.

Just then he felt a stealthy hand on his shoulder. "Wonderful party, Germany," came Russia's voice from behind him. "Very fun, for the summertime."

"Thanks, Russia." He turned. He'd not yet seen Russia, and wondered what kind of costume he'd chosen.

To his surprise, Russia was dressed in beautifully ornate traditional Eastern Orthodox priest's vestments, complete with an intricate scarf-like epitrachil. "What a remarkable set of vestments!" Germany exclaimed. "Russia, this is a lovely costume."

"Thank you. I love to wear the traditional outfits of my country." He looked around the yard, then at his host. "You're not drinking tonight?"

"Not at the moment. I'd wanted to try my rum punch, but unfortunately England drank most of it. He's sleeping it off in Prussia's bed."

"I brought some sangria. Would you like me to open it? We could share it!"

"Sangria? That's unusual for you, Russia. I'd have expected vodka."

"You know the world is becoming a global village. I like to try drinks from all nations. But if you don't want to share it with me, I understand," he concluded, with that dangerous smile.

"I – I don't mind a bit. Where did you stash it?" The two of them went into the house so Russia could fetch his sangria.

They discussed the history of the fruity wine while Russia unearthed a bottle from his bag, which had been placed near the door. "Do you have any fruit we can put into it?"

"Of course I do. Come into the kitchen."

Germany brought out some oranges, a lemon, the remainder of the lime slices from the rum punch, and an apple. "Can apples be used in sangria?" he wondered. "I don't even know."

"Why not?" Russia smiled. "We don't have to adhere to any rules. Cut up the fruit," he then demanded.

A little nervously, Germany cut up the fruit while Russia rummaged around to find a pitcher.

When the pitcher had been located, they put the fruit in first, and then poured the wine over top. Germany added ice cubes. "Technically," Russia pointed out, "we should let it marinate for a day, so that the fruit flavors mingle with the wine, but I want to drink it now."

Germany agreed. Plus, he didn't really want Russia hanging around for another day! The man made him extremely nervous. He poured them each a glass and they toasted one another before drinking.

"Mm, delicious," he said, smacking his lips.

"I agree. It is a very nice drink for a hot summer night."

At that comment, Germany once again realized how hot his samurai costume was. "Wait here just a moment," he said to Russia, and walked to the kitchen door to peek out at his guests. Everything seemed to be going well. Many of the guests had begun divesting themselves of their more annoying bits of costume, so that there was a pirate without hat or sword (France), a skeleton whose faux skull had been discarded (China), and a vampire missing his fangs and cape (Veneziano). America and Japan had pushed back their bunny hoods and removed their furry gloves. Everyone was merry and the noise level was loud. Germany decided he too could remove some of his costume and get more comfortable.

He turned back to see Russia pouring himself a second glass of sangria. "Help me with this costume, will you, Russia?" The priestly guest came over and helped his host out of most of the costume, leaving him clad only in the cuirass with his fatigues underneath. "That's sufficient, isn't it?"

"Of course. Please allow me to disrobe a little, too." Germany recoiled at Russia's choice of words, but his guest merely removed the epitrachil, the outer robe, and the mitre, remaining in the basic white surplice over his everyday clothing. "Ah, that's much better. It really was getting too hot in here. Don't you have the air conditioner running?"

"Yes, of course I do," Germany snapped, slightly testy, and moved to pour himself another glass of sangria. "But with all this body heat – frankly, I'm surprised so many people chose such heavy costumes in this weather." He drank the icy drink very quickly to cool down.

"I admit I wasn't considering your southern weather when I chose my costume," Russia pointed out. "But it is not too bad. Do you mind if I have another glass of sangria?"

"Be my guest." Germany indicated the pitcher. "It's too bad we're going to run out soon. This is quite a good drink!"

"Oh, I brought several bottles. We can drink it all night! Perhaps we should have a contest to see who can drink the most sangria."

"I can't do that, Russia! I need to stay attentive to my guests. But please, feel free to make and drink as much sangria as you like."

"Thank you. I brought twelve bottles."

"You brought an _entire case_? I had no idea you were such a heavy sangria user!"

"I drink what I like. No one can stop me." He smiled again, stepping close to his host, who began perspiring and tried to back away.

"Yes…yes, Russia, drink what you like. I – must go check on my guests."

Germany hastily left the kitchen, breathing deeply, unnerved. He hoped Russia would content himself with the sangria and not make trouble.

And yet, every time Germany turned around, Russia was standing by with a fresh glass of the fruity wine for him. Germany couldn't be rude to a guest, so he always took the glass, and the wine was so tasty, he always drank the wine.

Eventually everyone except Russia had either left the party or passed out. Germany looked around blearily at the detritus, at the inert bodies draped over the furniture and on the floor, and sighed. "Well, Russia? Shall we have some sangria, now that we are the last two standing?"

"But we drank it all," his guest pointed out. "All twelve bottles."

"_What_?" Upon hearing this news, Germany passed out on the couch, and Russia began laughing.

…

_The anagram was "My Sangria User."_


	51. England and Sealand

**England/Sealand.**

After hours on the dragon's back, they reached their destination. Here in the Hidden Vale, at the land's end, Lovino and Arthur finally dismounted from the big iridescent black dragon. Weary, they both managed to bow to it, and it inclined its head in response, blowing a short blast of fire just to the left of them. They both leaned against a palm tree on the island's beach.

"That dragon –" Lovino began.

"Shh," Arthur cautioned. "There's something I want to ask it."

He bowed to the dragon one more time. "Majestic dragon," he asked, "do you know who the men in pursuit of us were?" He coughed, realizing this sounded slightly ungrammatical, but neither Lovino nor the dragon seemed to notice.

The dragon inclined its head again.

"Were – were they pursuing Lovino and me?"

The dragon shook its head _no_.

"They were after you."

The dragon inclined its head again, confirming Arthur's words, and Lovino stared at his friend in amazement. "What – you what?" he asked, now staring at the magnificent beast, which was almost as big as Alfred's castle.

"I knew your brother wouldn't go to that kind of effort for me, not when he knew it would go against your wishes." Here, he squeezed Lovino's hand. "And the dragon was agitated well before we arrived. I surmised that the men were coming for him, and that we simply happened to arrive at an opportune time."

The dragon lay down with its chin resting on the sand of the deserted island, eyes on the pair. "So…what does that actually mean?" Lovino asked.

"Hold on a moment," Arthur said, sotto voce, and turned back to the dragon. "Dragon." It looked at him. "Are you, in fact, an enchanted being? A dragon is not your original form?"

The dragon and Lovino both looked astounded, and then the dragon inclined its head.

"How the hell did you know that?" his friend asked.

"I'm quite experienced with magic, wanker," Arthur replied absently. "Just shut up and let me figure this out." But he took Lovino's hand again while he thought; Lovino squeezed it supportively.

"Those men – that posse – did they know your true form?"

The dragon nodded again.

"Are you – are you human?"

Another nod.

"And they know it, and they seek you – why? To change you back? Or for another reason?"

Even Lovino could see how stupidly that question was phrased, and he elbowed Arthur in the ribs. Arthur looked at him irritably. "How's the damn dragon supposed to answer that? Hey, dragon," he called. "They wanted to change you back?"

The dragon shook its head 'no' again.

"Did you do something wrong?" Arthur asked.

A nod.

"You did something wrong as a human?"

Nod.

"How long have you been under an enchantment?"

The dragon gave Arthur a really annoyed look.

"Right, I guess you can't give me numbers. Is this enchantment something I might be able to reverse?"

The dragon seemed to smirk at him, but Arthur couldn't quite be sure of that. But he was beginning to get a bit nervous. Although beautiful, it was definitely a powerful, impressive beast, and he didn't want to anger it.

"So…you think I can help you break the enchantment."

Lovino laughed. "I hope you don't have to kiss it."

The dragon let loose a stream of fire that narrowly missed the Italian, and he backed away hastily, letting go of Arthur's hand.

"Come back here, git. If I can break the enchantment, it won't risk actually hurting you."

The dragon closed its eyes as in frustration.

"Am I supposed to _know_ about this_?_" Arthur snapped. Then, a thought occurred. "Let's approach this from a different angle…Do I _know_ you?" Arthur asked the dragon, who nodded.

"You – you –" Arthur stopped and turned to Lovino. "This can't be right. Surely I would have heard about someone transformed into a dragon? I'm one of the foremost magicians in Europe!"

Lovino was taken aback. "Seriously? I never knew that."

"Shut it. Let me think a minute." He began to pace back and forth in front of the glittering reptilian/human, lost in thought. "You must be someone unimportant, or I would have heard about this!"

Another blast of fire narrowly missed him.

"What? I'm just thinking out loud. Now, if you were important, there would have been a worldwide, or at least a continent-wide, hue and cry. This is my reasoning, yes?"

The dragon rolled its eyes, and Lovino laughed.

"Stop that," the blond admonished his friend. "Now, dragon, was it a single person who transformed you?"

The dragon shook its head.

"A group of people?"

Another shake of the head.

"A curse on an inanimate object?"

The dragon pointed a claw at Arthur, as if to say, "You got it!"

"I really wish I knew how long you'd been under an enchantment. How's this? More than five years?"

A nod.

"More than ten?"

The dragon shook its head.

"Well, that's enough to be going on with. Somewhere between five and ten years ago, you were thrown under an enchantment by touching an inanimate object with a curse on it."

The dragon nodded with a weary expression, and Lovino began to laugh. "You're really not very good at this."

"What are you talking about, git?"

The dragon began to whuffle, as with laughter, at that. Not at Lovino's comment, but Arthur's response.

"You're English?" Arthur asked, and received a halfhearted nod in response. The dragon was looking very, very irritated. It reached out a forefoot towards the blond as if to crush him, and Lovino hastily dragged him out of reach.

"What are you doing, bastard? You're pissing it off!"

"I'm _trying_ to help it!" he countered. The dragon retracted its leg.

"Look, dragon, if I can figure out who you are – at least within a general idea – I might be able to find an angle to help. That's why I'm asking all the questions. All right?"

The dragon nodded.

"Ah, I'm so tired," Arthur finally realized. "Are we in any danger, here in the Hidden Vale? Are your pursuers likely to find us here?"

The dragon shook its head.

"Well…then let's stop this for tonight, and get some rest. You've flown a long way, and Lovino and I have a lot to discuss." Here, he looked at his friend, who nodded. "Find somewhere safe to rest, and we'll meet in the morning and try again?"

A nod, and the gigantic black dragon turned to stalk off through the island's foliage, here at the end of the world, presumably to find a safe place to sleep.

"Let's find somewhere to rest," Arthur said to Lovino. "I really am exhausted."

"Of course." Lovino took his hand and they walked off, pushing more deeply into the vegetation, looking for somewhere secluded to hide and sleep.

…

_The anagram was "A Land's End Angle."_

_So if the dragon, as you probably guessed, is Sealand…we still don't know who's pursuing him. At least we know Arthur and Lovino are safe from the devious machinations of Feliciano. Ha ha._

_I find it highly amusing that even my spell-checker refuses to recognize "Sealand"!_


	52. Spain and Holy Rome

_If I could just figure out who would be a good partner for Holy Rome, he might get some relief! Not today, though. Any suggestions?_

…

**Spain/Holy Rome.**

Holy Rome arrived at Spain's house looking quite presentable, carrying a little satchel. When Spain answered the door, he looked quite surprised. Well, he _had_ just got done fighting – and losing – a war to Holy Rome, so perhaps he wasn't prepared for this. Had France done what he'd said he'd do? Did Spain have _any idea_ why Holy Rome was even here?

"Please come in," the taller nation offered pleasantly.

The two of them went into the sunny and spacious main parlor of Spain's expansive home. The host gestured Holy Rome to a long, comfortable couch. Holy Rome sat and surreptitiously bounced up and down on the cushions when Spain wasn't looking. Hmm. Very comfortable indeed. He smiled, looking a bit evil.

Spain unfortunately chose to sit on the opposite couch. "May I get you a cup of coffee, or something stronger?" he asked politely.

Something stronger…Holy Rome didn't quite trust himself, drinking something stronger, with the mission he'd set himself today. "Coffee will be very good, thank you," he admitted. Spain moved out of the room to organize the coffee, and Holy Rome patted the little satchel where it sat next to him on the couch.

When Spain came back, the two of them drank coffee in silence for a few minutes. Holy Rome had to blow on the surface of the hot drink to cool it down, so he wouldn't burn the inside of his mouth. A fine predicament that would be! He took small sips, and savored the drink, losing himself in his thoughts.

Spain cleared his throat, which recalled Holy Rome to himself. "Holy Rome, what is it I can do for you today? I'm certain you didn't come here to drink coffee with me. Although it is nice to do so," he added hastily. Perhaps he was still a little afraid of Holy Rome, after the war? His plan would probably fail, if Spain were afraid of him. He'd need to reassure the dark-haired nation.

"It is very good coffee, Spain, and I thank you." He paused and absently started patting the satchel again as he stared at Spain. Hmm, yes, he may not actually _like_ him, but there was no denying he was good to look at. That fluffy dark hair…those lips…Holy Rome shook his head to regain his focus.

He was beginning to think France had failed him. Otherwise Spain would have had at least a little clue, surely? "When was the last time you spoke with – with France?"

"Not for a while," Spain considered. "A month, maybe? I have so little time to spare with my poor Francia. I miss him a great deal." Spain got a vacant look on his face and sighed, smiling into the distance.

Well, this wouldn't be good at all! Not if Spain was thinking about _France_ (urgh, urgh, urgh) while Holy Rome tried to…ahem…seduce him. "Let's not talk about France," he barked abruptly, removing his hat and covering the satchel with it. Perhaps if he couldn't see the satchel, he would be able to focus more.

"Sí, whatever you wish. Please tell me what brings you to my house today."

Holy Rome got off the couch and began to pace, just a little. Spain watched him with a smile. Finally he walked over, patted the satchel one last time, for confidence, and turned to his host.

"Spain, I…" He approached the older nation closely. "I have a desire for something, and I would like you to help me." Perhaps couching it in obscure terms would make it easier to say?

"I'm always happy to help you. What do you need?"

"I…want to…" He mumbled under his breath, unable to say it in either plain terms or obscure.

"I can't quite hear you."

"I want to make out with you!" Holy Rome barked. Whoops. Not very seductive, that. He reddened. He knew, he just _knew_ that Spain was going to laugh him out of the house. He looked down at the floor.

But no. "Holy Rome, amigo, you are adorable, but you are much too little for me to make out with! I'm not going to take advantage of such a child. What led you to think this would be a good idea?" Spain seemed genuinely concerned, which made Holy Rome thankful, though he still couldn't look up.

"France did," he admitted quietly. "He was supposed to tell you about this before I got here, to make it easier for me."

"I wish he had. I could have told him right then that it wasn't going to happen."

"I'm not really a child anymore, you know," was Holy Rome's soft response.

"I understand, but…I just cannot. I'm so sorry, Holy Rome. Perhaps you should talk to…Inglaterra? He's a little younger than France and me, so he might feel more comfortable with the idea?"

Holy Rome's patience was at an end. "I already did, you woolly-headed freak!" he erupted. "Do you think I would have stooped to come to _you_ if I could have found relief anywhere else? I've already tried Hungary, Austria, _and_ England! Even _Prussia! _And now you! I'm going to have to go to _Poland_ next, and who knows how that's going to turn out! I'm leaving, Spain!"

"Just one question," the older male countered. "What's in the satchel? You seemed pretty attached to it. A present for me?" He grinned.

"_No!_" Holy Rome grabbed his hat and satchel, slapping the hat on his head haphazardly. "It's a bottle of aloe vera gel. I thought if the making out went well, we could…" Here he blushed bright red and pushed his hat down to cover more of his face. "We could have had a…a bit of a romp with it. Make ourselves all shiny…" Here, he caught Spain staring at him with almost a look of fear. "Never mind! I'm leaving, and I am _never_ coming back, unless it is to _go to war with you_!"

Holy Rome stormed out of the room and the house, leaving Spain staring after him with a disbelieving look on his face.

"Aloe vera gel? Hmm…perhaps I should go see Francia…"

…

_The anagram was "Shiny Aloe Romp."_


	53. Prussia, England and Romano

**Prussia/England/Romano.**

On the morning after Germany's party, the blond awoke with surprisingly very little headache, considering he'd nearly single-handedly emptied the rum punch bowl. And hadn't it been delicious! He made a mental note to get the full recipe from Germany. England kept his eyes closed, feeling the warm body in his arms, and yawned contentedly.

On the other side of the bed, Romano heard the yawn and awoke, feeling the strong warm arms around him, and stretched a little without rolling over. "You all right, bastard?" he asked quietly.

"Kesesese!" came from the middle of the bed, startling England into opening his eyes and sitting up, and startling Romano right off the bed.

"What the fuck?" he yelled, from the floor.

"Gilbert?" England demanded. "What the hell are you doing in – in bed with us?" He blushed furiously and hid his face in the pillow.

Prussia laughed. "It's _my bed!_" Then he too sat up, and frowned. "Wait a minute. What do you mean, _in bed with us_? How did you two end up in my bed anyway?"

"How the bloody hell should I know? I was drunk!"

Romano got off the floor and crawled back onto the bed. "You were so fucking drunk that the samurai potato bastard put you down here. I didn't realize it was _albino boy's_ bed, dammit. I thought it was a spare room for emergencies." He rubbed a hand over his face. "Couldn't you have slept somewhere else?" he asked Prussia. "This bed is too fucking small for three grown men!"

"Are you kidding? When I saw you two sleeping here I knew it was my awesome duty to sleep in the middle. You both looked so sexy! I had to keep you away from each other!"

Both the others blushed; Romano put a hand over his face, and England pushed his face into the pillow again.

"I'm just kidding, you sour old man. Seriously, Arthur, who would want to wake up next to you?"

Both his bedmates stared at him in amazement.

"Well, obviously _you_ would, Gilbert, or you wouldn't _be_ here in the sodding _bed_!" England yelled, punching him in the arm.

"Ow. I hadn't thought of it that way." The albino yawned and rubbed his arm.

"But anyway, bastard, are you all right? You drank way too much last night. In that silly angel costume…" Here, Romano raised an eyebrow at his friend, who blushed, looking down to find he was still in the mangy angel tunic. Romano and Prussia were only wearing boxers.

"Listen, demon," he laughed, "well, yes, I'm fine. That rum punch was great, though."

"There was rum punch?" Prussia asked. "How come I didn't know that? It was _my party!_ Well, it was West's party, but you know what I mean."

"Because fucking Angel Boy drank it all," Romano snorted.

"_All_ of it? The whole punch bowl full?" Prussia looked at England with admiring eyes. "Damn, Arthur, you sure can drink."

"Eh, you know how I am with rum." England lay back on the pillow. "How about you guys? Did you drink a lot?"

"Kesesesese! Of course I did. I found some stuff West has been hoarding and Denmark and I drank it."

"Denmark's still speaking to you?" the blond laughed.

"Well…I talked him into it after we found the booze." Prussia grinned at him.

Romano lay back on his pillow, too. "Does anybody in this bed actually care about _me_?" he grumbled.

"No," England snorted.

"Of course we do, Romano!" Prussia hugged him. "Here. You lay in the middle of the bed, all right? Then we can both focus on _you._" He climbed over Romano and pushed him into the center, and then lay on his side facing him and England.

"So how much did you drink last night, demon?" England poked his friend.

"Cheh. Not much. I was too embarrassed by you, bastard."

"Am I missing something here?" Prussia then asked.

"No," the other two chorused, and started laughing. England rolled onto his side and wrapped an arm around Romano's waist. Prussia boggled, but before he could say anything, the blond asked his friend, "What was your costume, anyway? I don't even remember."

"It was stupid. Forget it." But of course Prussia had to shove his oar in.

"He was a _demon_! Seriously, Arthur, why have you been calling him a demon if you don't even remember that?"

But England and Romano were grinning at each other again, ignoring Prussia.

"Hello? Hello? Am I the only one listening to the sound of my own most awesome voice?"

"Yes."

"Well, whatever." Prussia laughed and lay down to sling an arm around Romano. "Wow. You're really warm. No wonder Arthur likes to hug you."

Romano just rolled his eyes, but England took his hand away from his friend to caress Prussia's face. "Oh, Gilbert. You're just so romantic." He made kissing noises at him.

Prussia fluttered his eyelashes at the other two. "Are you two going to stay in bed all day?" he asked archly, waggling his eyebrows.

"Why not? I'm still tired. Want to take a nap, wanker?"

"Sure, bastard, why not. What about you, albino potato? Sleepy or not?"

"Hey, the awesome me loves morning naps. It's like cheating! Sure, I'll have a nap with you." He pulled up the covers over the three of them and then put his arm around Romano again. "Plus you're super warm to hug."

Romano and England stared at each other in dismay.

"I think I will get up," the island nation decided.

"Cheh, yes, all right, me too."

"Hey, wait a minute! What about our morning nap?"

"See you around, bastard," Romano said, gathering up his gear. "I've got stuff I need to do."

"Bye, Gilbert," England said, blowing him a kiss, arms full of angel costume bits. "Have a nice nap."

"Don't tell West I'm awake. He'll make me help clean."

"Right. Talk to you later."

They left the room, and Prussia immediately rolled over and went back to sleep.

…

_The anagram was "A Euro Lad's Morning Naps." Another stretch. But I wanted to write the three of them in bed together._

_But I think I'm going to stop stretching to get scenarios. I have more fun just looking for random goofy anagrams and writing them. So, stay tuned!_


	54. France and Britain

_Couldn't get anything good out of "France England."_

_..._

**France/Britain.**

"Hey, frog, where's the money jar?" England stood at the kitchen shelf, irritated. Why had he ever let France come and stay with him for vacation? Nothing ever went right when Francy-pants was here.

"Eh? What money jar are you talking about, Angleterre?"

Was it England's imagination, or did France sound a little...artificial? "Don't be a git. I had a glass money jar sitting here. I put all my coins in it, so that when I need cash for a taxi ride, I can just dip in my hand and pull out some money. Where did the jar go? It didn't just evaporate!" He looked around in case the frog had moved it to another shelf for some reason.

France looked a bit embarrassed.

"What, wanker? Did you steal my carfare money?" Bloody hell. He knew France did some strange stuff every now and then, but this was just _brutal._

"Oh! No, no, no, not at all. I…uh…broke the jar." France actually blushed at this and looked away from his host.

"You _broke my money jar_. What happened to all my carfare money? And did you ever plan to tell me about this? Surely you didn't think you could hide it from me!" He punched the shelf, which wobbled a bit.

"Non…I had planned to tell you tomorrow when you got home."

"Why tomorrow? Why not now? In fact, why didn't you tell me when you broke it? And…_where's all my carfare money?_" He was feeling dangerously angry at this point.

"Calm down, mon ami. Your money is safe. I…I'm just waiting until tomorrow because I ordered a replacement for your money jar…an unbreakable replacement…and it's going to be delivered tomorrow."

"You're joking."

"No."

"You're serious?"

"Yes!"

England rubbed his eyes; he was tired, and arguing with France was not the best method of energizing himself that he knew. He took a deep breath. "Fine. Whatever. Just – when the stupid replacement gets here, put my money in it, put it on _that_ shelf _there_" – he indicated a shelf – "and tell me it's here. All right? So I can get the money when I need it?"

"Oui, mon ami. I'll do just that." France slipped from the room, and England stepped to the kettle to make some tea, to calm down.

…

The next day England was out when the post arrived. France took the heavy box from the postie and carried it gently to the kitchen to open it. Yes, it was an unbreakable bin, but he still wanted to be careful. He knew that if he dropped the heavy bin and it made a dent in England's hardwood floors, he'd be in trouble for that, too. He sighed. Why had he chosen to come here for his short midweek break? Visiting England was always so stressful; he always thought it would be nice, but it never was. Angleterre just never seemed to relax!

After he opened the shipping box, he discovered the bin was inside another box. France patiently unpacked the bin from the second, inner box, and set it on the table. Well. It was an inelegant item, something that would never have found a home in France's own house, but England clearly wasn't fussy about his home décor, so this plain tin box would work perfectly. France went to his room to fetch all the money from the broken jar and spent a pleasant half-hour idly tinkling coins into the new bin. Hmm. There was really a lot of money here. From the looks of things, England would have plenty of carfare for the next year or more! He knew his old friend would be pleased about that.

When all the money was in the new box, he placed it on _that_ shelf _there_ and went about his business for the rest of the day, including properly breaking down the shipping box and inner box and putting them in England's recycling bin.

…

After a weary day at Parliament, England came home, his hair looking scruffier than usual. "Mon ami, what's wrong?" France asked, coming to smooth his hair.

He growled and pushed his guest's hand away. "Thanks to you, wanker, I had to ride the bloody _bus_ tonight! I didn't have enough money for a taxi, because of you breaking the damn jar! The bus was packed, and everyone was sweaty, and I was already irritable, and…ugh. Did you get the stupid money box? Is my money in it yet? Let me see it." England walked to _that_ shelf _there_ and looked up and down. "Where is it, Francy-pants?"

"Calm down, Angleterre! It's right here." France indicated the big tin box. "Your money is inside it. And it looks like you have a great deal of money for carfare!"

England looked at his house guest as if he'd just landed here from Planet Loony. "How the hell am I supposed to see how much money's in there? It's _tin!_"

France didn't understand the problem. "It won't break, mon ami? I thought that was the most important thing!"

"You're an absolute wanker. I need to see into it, so I can pull out the right coins! Tin is bloody stupid for this!" He reached out and flung the full tin bin onto the floor, and not only did it dent the hardwood, but spilled the carfare money all over the floor. France bent down sadly to pick up the bin, and it fell apart in his hand.

"Oh."

"Yes, _oh._ Take this bloody _unbreakable _box and get out of here. I'm going to call America and see if he can send me one of those unbreakable polymer jars. Go back home, frog; I don't think I can stand to look at you any more today."

France sighed and threw the pieces of the tin carfare bin into the garbage before heading to the guest room to pack and leave.  
><strong>…<strong>

_The anagram was "Tin Carfare Bin."_


	55. America and Holy Rome

**America/Holy Rome.**

England had come to visit Austria, and despite their recent differences, he'd brought the teenaged America with him. America didn't mind. Sometimes he felt he needed to expand his world view. But the two older nations were stuffily discussing tea and music on the divan, so America got permission to wander around outside.

As he slouched around Austria's beautiful gardens, he saw a furtive movement ahead. He walked slowly over to where he'd seen the movement.

Someone all in black was lying on the path in a faint. "Hey! Are you all right?" He picked up the fallen hat and began fanning the young man with it.

The supine figure began to stir. "I – uh - ?" He opened his eyes and looked at the tall, golden-blond teen kneeling over him, then blushed violently.

"Are you all right?" America asked again. "Did you faint?"

"I – I'm all right," the other said. "Thank you for your concern." He sat up, taking the hat from America, but did not put it back on, just held it and stared at him with wide, admiring blue eyes. "Who are you?" he managed to ask.

"I'm America. Who are you?"

"I'm the Holy Roman Empire. They call me Holy Rome."

"That's a beautiful name," America said, making Holy Rome blush and look down. "I've never heard of you," he added.

"_What?_" Holy Rome was quite affronted.

America laughed. "Oh, don't worry about it. I don't pay too much attention to Europe anyway, so…there's a lot going on that I don't know about. I've got plenty to do to keep my house in order right now."

"Wh – why are you here, then?" Holy Rome asked shyly. America extended his hand to help him stand up, and Holy Rome took it and blushed as he stood.

"England brought me. Pfft. He's inside talking to Austria about tea and music. Boring." America smiled at his new friend. "What are you doing out in the gardens?"

"Just wandering around," Holy Rome admitted. "I've been rather frustrated lately, and was trying to clear my head." He blushed again, casting sidelong glances at America.

"What kind of frustration?"

"Uh," Holy Rome replied.

"What? Oh! Aren't you a little young for that sort of thing?"

The shorter blond looked outraged. "I've been around since the tenth century!" he exploded.

"Really? Wow. You must not be very powerful then," America mused, "since you're so little."

Holy Rome just growled at him and walked off, putting his hat on. But America followed.

"Hey, don't get mad at me. So you're going through puberty, huh? Yeah, that's a tough time."

"You – you've been through it?"

"Sure. I'm all grown up now, can't you tell? Got my independence from England about ten years ago, and I'm feeling mighty strong and fine."

"You _are_ mighty strong and fine," Holy Rome blurted out, then covered his mouth with his hand.

"_What?"_ America looked at his companion. "You – you mean that?" He blushed.

"Uh…yes," Holy Rome admitted.

The two of them stood in confusion, blushing, on the path.

"Would – would you –" Holy Rome was unable to continue.

America looked a little nervous. "What – exactly – do you have in mind?" he asked, a little hesitantly.

Holy Rome looked down at his feet. "I've been trying to find someone to…make out with…for a long time now. But everyone around here says the same thing you do. I look too little. Nobody takes me seriously." He ground the toe of his boot into the pale gravel of the pathway.

"I know just how _that_ is," his companion responded. "England wouldn't take me seriously until I beat him in a war. Maybe that's what you need to do."

"Maybe. But that's a lot of hassle to go through, just to find someone to – to kiss." He blushed again, but managed to look up, and America was standing with his hands on his hips, staring into the gardens.

"Come on," America said, grabbing his hand and dragging him along.

"Wh – where are we going?"

"Look, a little kissing never hurt anybody, right? If you really are as old as you say, then I have no objection to a little kissing! It might make you feel better, and it'll be a heroic deed!"

Holy Rome looked astonished at this, but ran with his new friend eagerly.

They found a bench and America plopped down on it. "Come up, let's kiss."

"Huh. You're not very seductive, are you?" Holy Rome asked.

"Why should I bother? You already said you wanted to." America beamed at Holy Rome. "Come on. Let's do it."

"_What?_" Holy Rome yelled. "I just want to _kiss!_ I don't want to – to _do it!_"

America began laughing loudly. "Oh, that is _not_ what I meant. I meant, do the kissing. Sheesh." He reached for Holy Rome and leaned in for a kiss, closing his eyes.

Holy Rome couldn't believe this had been so easy. Maybe things were more relaxed in the New World. He leaned towards America and they shared a gentle, exploratory kiss.

"Wow," America breathed. "You're a really good kisser!"

_Take that, Prussia, you idiot!_

They kissed again. But Holy Rome was beginning to feel a little disturbed.

"Uh – America? Can we stop for a minute?"

America drew back. "Too much for you?" he asked with a grin.

"Well…there's something I hadn't considered about all this. I've been so frustrated for so long that I've fixated all my attention on finding someone to help me relieve it. But…there is someone that I care for…and…kissing you makes me…feel like I'm cheating." An adorable vision of Italy sleeping before the fireplace came into his mind, and his face softened. Ah, if only he had realized this before. "I'm sorry, America. You – you are quite attractive, and a very good kisser as well, and I appreciate your – your heroic willingness to help a fellow nation. But I believe my heart would be more content if I remained faithful to the one I love, until we can be together." He blushed and looked at his new friend. "Do you understand?"

"Huh," America replied. "You _must_ be older than you look! You sound as stuffy as England!" He got up and ran away, laughing, leaving Holy Rome on the bench in romantic contemplation, not even disturbed at the insult.

In a few minutes he got up and went into the house. He wanted to give America something nice to remember him by. The revelation that had occurred to him was well worth it. He looked through his closet and found a beautiful cream-colored hat, just like his everyday hat, but much too fancy for him to wear. He preferred the serviceability of black. This cream hat was very well-made, well enough to be an heirloom for America's house. He hoped the tall blond would accept it in token of their friendship. Holy Rome wasn't sure whether he'd ever see America again, but he wanted to make the gesture.

After repacking it into its box, he carried the box to the front room, where England, Austria and America were now all drinking tea. Holy Rome walked right up to America with the hat box and handed it to him.

"What's this?" his friend asked.

"Just a little token of my friendship. I'm – I'm glad we met each other, America. Thank you for helping me."

At these words, Austria and England both looked a little agitated, but America simply smiled and took the box. "Thanks, Holy Rome. I hope things work out for you."

Holy Rome left the front room after saying goodbye to the guests, and went in search of Italy. Maybe they could cook some pasta together.

…

_The anagram was "A Creamy Heirloom." Another weak one, but I wanted to wrap up this story line. Holy Rome was getting out of control._


	56. England and Austria

**England/Austria.**

America decided to go outside again, now that Holy Rome had wandered off. Austria stood and stretched. "I have a new acquisition that you might like to see, being a seafaring nation," he said to England.

England too stood up. "What is it?"

Austria led the blond to his rarities room, a special museum-like chamber where he showcased the beautiful gifts he was frequently given. There was no rhyme or reason to the room; Roman glass jewelry was in glass cases with primitive Germanic spoons; crystal carafes from France interspersed with rare seashells and pressed flowers. The room was beautifully lit by the afternoon sun through the long, tall windows, and everything in it seemed bright, unreal, and dreamy. England found his attention drawn to the room's décor, more than the rarities, at first.

The elegant striped-silk wallpaper perfectly set off the tasteful gilding on the cornices; the few settees placed here and there coordinated very nicely. Austria was so elegant, he now remembered. It was easy to think the nation was only concerned with music, but in reality, the sophistication went much deeper.

"Come further in," his host suggested. "The item I want to show you is in this case." They crossed the room and Austria gestured to a low, wide glass case.

England peeked inside. Hmm. He couldn't quite figure out what Austria wanted him to see. There was a miniature sundial, several ornate glass beads, some kind of large gun, a pair of embroidered leather gloves, two or three flasks that looked like they might hold perfume, and a lady's fan. "I'm sorry, Austria," he apologized. "I don't understand what you're showing me."

"Forgive me. It's the gun."

England was, in fact, quite fond of guns, and always appreciated the chance to see new styles. "What kind is it?" he asked.

Austria unlocked the top of the glass case before responding. He drew the heavy gun out of the case and handed it to his guest. "We believe it's used in seal hunting."

"_Seal_ hunting?" England turned the gun over and over, admiring the carving, the well-polished metalwork. "Who gave it to you?"

"Well, Prussia, actually," Austria admitted, "but he won't tell me where he got it."

England snorted inelegantly. "Probably stole it." He turned the gun in his hands again. It looked quite radiant as it reflected the blazing sunlight. Austria kept all his rarities highly-polished and clean, when possible. "So people use these to hunt seals."

"Apparently so."

"What makes it different from, say, a regular musket?" He aimed it vaguely at Austria, grinning.

"Don't do that!" his host yelled, grabbing the muzzle and pushing it down towards the floor. "Do _not_. It's loaded."

"_What_? Why would you leave a loaded seal gun in a locked glass case? In the middle of a landlocked country?" England asked in astonishment. "Are you expecting a marauding seal to wander past?"

"First of all," Austria sniffed primly, taking the gun back and replacing it in the case, "it never hurts to be able to repel intruders. Any kind of weapon is useful for that. Second of all, you never know when it will be necessary to grab a weapon at hand, rather than hunting all over the house for something better to use." He flicked his neatly-tied hair back into place; it had gotten disarranged in the scuffle for the gun.

"Fine. Then tell me, if you don't mind, how this is different from a regular musket?"

"I don't know! You'd have to ask Prussia."

"Forget it. I don't even want to know." Austria locked the glass case again and took his guest by the arm to lead him out of the chamber.

"Would you like some more tea? Or do you and America need to be going?"

England fidgeted a bit. "I'm slightly worried about America and Holy Rome," he confessed in a very low voice. "Holy Rome has occasionally been a bit…unusual around me."

Austria drew back, eyes wide. "You too?" he asked. "We have been having a difficult time of it here. Apparently he's been pestering everyone to make out with him."

"That's – that's not what he tried with me!" England shouted hoarsely, and Austria's jaw dropped. The blond got a grip on himself. "Forgive me; I didn't mean to yell. I'm just – well, knowing what Holy Rome was trying to talk me into previously, and seeing how…thankful…he was with America this afternoon, I'm…slightly worried."

"I can certainly understand." Austria led England out into the back yard, where they could see America lounging around the gardens alone. "I don't know him that well – does America appear to be acting differently?"

"Eh, he's always a bit of a slouch. But if Holy Rome had – had – ack, I can't even say it – then I'd have expected one or both of them to be a little more awkward during that scene in the parlor. I wasn't even that worried, until Holy Rome gave him a present. It makes me wonder why."

"I agree," Austria said. "I hadn't considered anything until Holy Rome thanked him. But in any case, they're not together right now, and you'll both be leaving tonight, yes? Perhaps it's best if we simply avoid discussing the issue with them?"

"I think you'd have a harder time of it than I would. America is older now, and quite strong – as I have reason to know – and I can't imagine that Holy Rome, although older, could have taken advantage of him. Consider the difference in their respective sizes," England pointed out. "America would have – would have had to be willing…and I can't quite see that."

"You're still assuming that something more – _advanced_ – than kissing was involved."

"Holy Rome tried to be much more advanced than just _kissing_, with me," the island nation confessed. "But perhaps you are right. It was quite a different situation. But I don't really wish to discuss that any further."

"Believe me, I completely understand. Perhaps you and America can discuss it when you leave, to make sure he was not distressed by anything Holy Rome may have said or done?"

"Yes, I'll try to be subtle and bring it up. But please, Austria, please make sure that Holy Rome was also not…distressed by anything America may have done?" Austria nodded.

They walked back into the front room. "We should probably be going now, anyway. I'll swing by the garden and fetch America on my way out. Thank you again for a pleasant day, and the chance to see the rare seal gun. If you get a chance, please do ask Prussia about how it differs from a musket. I don't want to speak to him if I don't have to."

"Understood. Sometimes I wish I could go without speaking to him as well." They shared a companionable smile before England left the house in search of America.

…

_The anagram was "Radiant Seal Gun." Perhaps Austria and Chibiromano should go to sea together and hunt seals and whales._

_I got some other funny anagrams for these two, but this one seemed to fit best with the Holy Rome timeframe. I might use the other ones for the modern timeframe. Of course, you can also get "tiara" from Austria every time, so I might whomp them into that story line too!_

_Thanks to Maiya123 for the character suggestion._


	57. Arthur and Lovino

**Arthur/Lovino.**

They headed away from the dragon's path, seeking shelter elsewhere on the island. "I've never heard of this place," Lovino offered. "Where are we, bastard? It was wintertime back at Alfred's party, but here it's warm and summery."

Arthur shook his head in irritation before responding.

"Whoops." Lovino dropped his eyes. "Should I shut up about him? I'm sorry."

"Whatever, wanker. He's just a friend; sometimes I even have to wonder about that. Friends shouldn't force people to wear _dresses! _Come on, don't be stupid." He pulled his friend along by the hand until they reached a clearing under the leafy palms. "I'm just angry because I'm stuck in the damned dress."

Lovino looked at it critically as well as he could in the dark, as they tried to clear a space to sleep. "It was a really nice dress, when you first came out into the ballroom. Now you look like shit."

"Thanks a lot, git. Wait here a second."

"What? Where are you going?"

"Just wait here, all right? You'll be safe. I'll be back in a minute or two." Arthur stepped out of the clearing. Lovino could hear him muttering not very far away. He began to worry a little; it was too dark, here, under the palm trees, to see much, although at least the weather was nice. He wondered whether there were wild animals here, or dangerous reptiles or insects. This was not a place he'd ever seen before – in fact, Lovino hadn't even heard of it before last night. His new relationship with Arthur was turning into quite an adventure. He wanted to behave very honorably with the blond, not to frighten him away, because these last few hours had already been much more exciting for him than his everyday life. This would be interesting, and he wanted to keep experiencing it.

There was a strange flash of white light from where Arthur had gone. Lovino frowned and started to fidget with nerves, but in a few moments Arthur came crashing back through the underbrush in his heavy boots.

"Where did you go, bastard? What was that white light?"

"I changed the dress," the blond replied, in a weary, annoyed voice.

"Into what? You didn't have anything with you!"

"I used magic." He settled in next to Lovino again and blew out a sigh. "I tried to transform it into a suit, or at least something more reasonable for me to wear. Men in dresses – it's just stupid."

"Yesterday I would have agreed with you, if I hadn't then seen how pretty you looked at the party." Lovino's voice was warm.

"Will you shut up about that?" Arthur bent his knees and rested his forehead on them, wrapping his arms around his legs. "Just – let's just not talk about it."

"Well, wait. You used magic to transform the dress? Is that what the flash of light was? What are you wearing now? I can't see; it's too dark."

"Never mind. It's almost as bad as the dress." His voice was very irritable, and he kept his head down.

Lovino scooted a little closer and put his hand gently in the small of Arthur's back. "You know it wouldn't matter to me what you were wearing."

"Well, _no_, I don't really know that. You've been – been saying nice things like that all night, but…I don't know…" His voice drifted off.

"Arthur," his friend crooned soothingly, "you really _don't_ need to be so defensive with me. Every time you get negative, it makes me angry. I don't want us sitting here yelling at each other all night." He scooted even closer. "Even though it's almost morning by now."

Arthur didn't respond, but he didn't push Lovino away, either. The brunet wrapped his arm around his friend's waist supportively. Hmm…it didn't feel like the same dress. Or at least the same fabric. He couldn't feel the gold embroidery under his fingertips; it felt more like velvet. Lovino idly stroked it a little with his thumb, resting his head on Arthur's shoulder, taking his hand with his free hand.

"Do you want to sleep?" he asked quietly. "I know we've both had a really long night. All that running made me really tired…and then having to make sure I didn't fall off the dragon's back…"

Arthur nodded without looking up, although he did squeeze Lovino's hand. "Yes. We're safe here. Let's get some sleep; we don't know what tomorrow will bring." He finally lifted his eyes to his friend's, and Lovino was astonished at the brave, soft smile that graced Arthur's face. He felt himself filled with new determination. Feliciano did not deserve this man, and he did, dammit. He leaned forward and placed a sweet kiss on Arthur's cheek.

"Come then, let's lie down together and rest. Don't worry…you're safe with me. When we wake up, I want you to tell me all about magic. I don't know anything about it at all!"

"I can do that," the blond smiled. He lay back on the sand and Lovino nestled in next to him. "Thank you," Arthur went on.

"For what?"

"Everything," he smiled, raising a hand to caress Lovino's face, "absolutely everything."

…

_I'm at a decision point here. I definitely want to continue this, but not within the confines of the anagram chapters. For one thing, I'm running out of usable anagrams! (You noticed I had to use Arthur and Lovino for this chapter.) This means I'll either need to start a new story and duplicate the previous chapters from Anagram Stories, or cut off this story line entirely and restart with something similar to the anagram chapters but not the same. This is the last anagram chapter I'm going to do from this particular AU. Since Holy Rome wrapped up, too, that means we're most likely going to be in the modern world for the foreseeable future._

_Any opinions? You can PM me if you don't want to review. _

_Whoops. The anagram was "Virtual Honor." _

_And…I'm guessing at least two of you will recognize this suit, if it makes its appearance in daylight!_


	58. Germany and Romano

**Germany/Romano.**

"Listen, git, I'm going to the spare room to get my stuff, all right? Do you want to come over to my place? At least we can sleep in peace there." They shared a grin.

"Sure, why not? I'll get my stuff." Romano turned and went into the front room, where he'd left his bag. There were a couple of people passed out or just beginning to wake up. The only one uncostumed was the potato bastard, who was groaning on the sofa, but not really awake. Looked like maybe Denmark was over there, and, yeah, that was Canada draped over him…

What the fuck? Romano did a double-take back to the couch where the potato bastard was slumped. It was covered in blood! Thinking of blood reminded him of Veneziano's vampire costume. Where the hell was his fratello, anyway? Romano looked around in a panic, but didn't see him anywhere. _So much blood…_

Germany groaned a little bit more and opened his eyes.

"Where the hell's my brother, you big dumb bastard?" Romano snarled.

Germany didn't answer at first. He lifted his hand to shade his eyes and those eyes sprang open in astonishment when he saw the blood all over it. "What is going on here?" He awoke a little more and looked at the bloody couch, the bloodstains on the floor, and the red drops leading from the couch to the kitchen. "Romano? Where did all this blood come from?"

"How the fuck should I know, bastard?" he hissed, trying not to wake the other guests. "I just want to figure out where Veneziano went."

"Romano, I'm tired of your – your bullshit," the blond snapped. "You're always so – so _fucking mean, _and I'm sick of it. Shut up and get out of my house, and don't come back."

"Bastard," Romano sneered, "like I actually _want to be here_? Get out of my way." This as Germany stood up and stared down at him menacingly.

"Get out of the house."

"I need to find my fratello, you potato eater! I think this blood is his."

"What? Get the hell _out_! How dare you insinuate that I would allow harm to come to my friend Italy at one of my parties!" Germany reached out a threatening hand towards his guest but Romano wasn't paying any attention at all.

"Hey, I'm Italy too, stupid! Now move!" Romano kicked Germany in the shin and stormed past him, following the trail of blood drops.

Germany limped after him. "Can you at least keep your voice down?"

"Why should I, bastard? _Hey, Veneziano_!" he yelled, just to irritate Germany.

This was not a wise move. The tall blond pushed him up against the kitchen door. "Shut – your – mouth," he ground out between clenched teeth, bending down to get in the angry Italian's face. "I will _not_ have you disrupting my remaining guests, many of whom are _hung over!_"

"Whose fault is that, you idiotic – _argh!"_ Romano couldn't even think of a name bad enough to call him. He pushed Germany away, feeling more and more worried about his fratello, and burst into the kitchen.

"Oh, my _God_," he blurted out, when he saw what was on the floor.

Germany came in behind him, growling, and stopped short when he saw the sight that greeted their eyes.

Veneziano was lying on the floor of the kitchen half out of his vampire costume, in a pool of fresh blood; Switzerland, dressed in a toga almost as brief as England's shabby angel tunic, sprawled over him, also blood-spattered. Romano and Germany looked around in a panic for any sign of Switzerland's weapons, but didn't see any.

"Veneziano! Wake up, wake up!" Romano bent down and shook his brother, who didn't react; Germany tried to lift the supine Switzerland, but dithered, because he felt uncomfortable touching so much of the man's exposed skin.

"Romano. You look after Switzerland, I'll take care of Italy," he barked.

"Get away, you dumbass. Nobody's touching my fratello but me."

Germany slicked his hair back with his free hand. "Romano, shut your fucking trap! Go get some water to dump on them!"

"It's your kitchen, bastard, _you_ get the water." He continued shaking Veneziano, who continued to not respond.

Germany stomped over to the sink and filled two glasses with water. In the meantime, Romano hesitantly dipped a finger into the blood and raised it to his nose, then gingerly tasted it.

"Veneziano, you fucking idiot," he then hissed. "You'd better get up off the damn floor _right now!"_

But it was too late. Germany dumped a glass of water right on Veneziano's face, and he sat up, spluttering and coughing, with a big goofy grin on his face. Switzerland too sat up, before Germany could throw water on him.

"What the hell?" Germany asked.

Switzerland gave Veneziano a complicit little smile, then started to leave the room without speaking.

"Hey! Switzerland!" Germany called after him.

Switzerland turned in place at the kitchen door, flicking the safety catch off a gun with a smirk and idly pointing it in Germany's general direction. _Where the hell had he been keeping the gun?_ Romano wondered.

"Great party, Germany," he smirked, before slipping out of the kitchen.

Veneziano was still giggling. "Italy, what is your problem?" Germany asked in a very harsh voice, still staring after Switzerland.

"We wanted to see if we could fool anyone into panicking! Ve, Switzerland was so much fun last night! We had a really great time together!"

Romano slapped his face. "Don't scare me like that, fratello!"

Then Germany grabbed Romano's arm. "Don't hit Italy!"

"Do you need me to tell you again, you stupid fucking potato bastard, that I'm Italy too? _Chigi_!"

Astonishingly, Veneziano had continued to laugh through all this. Now he shut up. "Ve, Romano, Germany, don't be mean! It was a fun party and now it's over!" He reached up and pinched his brother's cheek and Romano smacked his hand away.

"You are _such an idiot,_" he growled out. "I—"

Then they heard someone entering the kitchen. "Now what," Germany sighed wearily.

But it was England. "Ready to go, git?"

"Yeah." Romano got up to leave and smirked back at the two on the floor. "See you later, bastards. And by the way, Prussia's awake; he said to come get him; he's sorry he drank all your secret stash of liquor, and he wants to help you clean up."

…

_The anagram was "A Mean, Gory Morn."_


	59. Switzerland and Veneziano

**Switzerland/Veneziano.**

"Ve, Switzerland, it was nice of you to invite me over."

"I thought we might work in the garden today," his host suggested. "It's a beautiful warm day, and…there is a lot of endive that needs to be picked."

"I love endive! I don't mind working in your beautiful garden at all. But…could I ask one favor?"

Switzerland sighed. "You want me to leave my guns in the house."

"How did you know?"

"Everybody _always_ wants me to leave my guns when they're here! I don't understand why everyone gets so upset about it!"

Veneziano was beginning to get a bit upset already. Switzerland _was_ still wearing three guns – at least three that he could see. Who knew how many more his host had concealed?

And yet – "For you, Veneziano, because I know how scared you get, and because I really do need help with all this endive, I will leave all the guns in the house. Except one. Just a small one. Is that acceptable?"

"Ve, yes, Switzerland," the younger man sighed. "Thank you. I just don't understand why you're so pro-war all the time."

As they walked out to the gardens, Switzerland tried to explain reasons for carrying guns, that in fact he was quite _anti_war. "I just don't believe in it. I can't see why people waste their time fighting, and…it's just silly."

"But that makes no sense for you. Why do you carry all these guns if you're antiwar?"

They had reached the rows of ripe endive. "Whoa!" Veneziano interrupted himself to say. "That's a _lot of lettuce!"_

"I did tell you so." Switzerland sounded a bit irritable. Veneziano remembered that he still had one – small – gun hidden somewhere, and hastily adjusted his attitude.

"Well, then we'd better get picking, right? Do you have baskets?"

"The baskets are here." The blond pointed to a few stacks, containing about forty baskets total. "We will probably need them all. Just take a basket, and when you've filled it, leave it where it is and get an empty one. I can get Liechtenstein to help carry the full baskets inside later."

"Ve, why isn't she helping with the endive?" Veneziano grabbed his first basket and moved off to the first row of lettuce. Switzerland took his basket to a spot opposite him, so they could continue to chat as they moved down the line together.

"I don't want her out in the sun too much. It can damage her – her delicate skin." Switzerland glared at the first lettuce and placed it carefully into his basket.

Veneziano smiled at Switzerland, though the blond didn't see. What a thoughtful brother.

Together they filled their first baskets and left them by the side of the planted row. "It's been a bit dry here, hasn't it?" Veneziano asked, noticing that some of the lettuce was beginning to brown.

"Yes. I keep thinking these plants should be watered, but if we're going to pick them all, then we might as well just pick them and not bother watering them."

"What – what are you actually going to do with all this? This is far too much for you and Liechtenstein to eat, even if you ate nothing but endive for the rest of the month! Most of it would still spoil."

"I know. We usually give a big batch to Austria, Hungary and Prussia. They all love endive as much as we do. It's a regional favorite. Of course, you may take some with you tonight as well, as a thank-you for your help."

"That would be lovely. Thank you."

After another hour, both nations were perspiring in the sun, and they were not even halfway done. "I don't think we're going to get all this done today."

"Ve, that's just what I was thinking. But if we don't pick it, you should really water it."

"You are right. Keep picking a bit; I'll get the hoses hooked up, and we can take a break to water the endive that's furthest from where we are now. Perhaps I can buy another day of life for it, doing that, and pick the rest tomorrow." Switzerland strode off to connect the garden hoses; Veneziano kept picking.

As he finished the current basket, the blond came back holding a hose. "Here. You start at the end, and I'll start here, and we can meet in the middle. Yes?"

"Yes," his guest agreed, moving to the end of the row.

When Switzerland turned the hose on, Veneziano began assiduously watering the endive at his feet, waving the hose gently back and forth to simulate rain, admiring the sparkle of the water drops in the summer sun and how the hose water made a gentle rainbow before him. He looked up at his host to see that Switzerland was aiming the hose like a rifle, shooting water determinedly down onto the plants. This so horrified the Italian that he ran up the row, opposite Switzerland, his hose streaming water behind him.

"Stop, Switzerland! Stop! Don't do it that way!"

Switzerland seemed startled by his guest's nervous yells and looked up, not taking care to redirect the hose. It shot water all over Veneziano.

"Ve, that's no good! Look out!" The younger man aimed his hose at Switzerland and began squirting him, water pouring out of the nozzle at a very fast rate.

Switzerland looked shocked at this, but then began laughing and intentionally aiming the hose at his guest. He put his thumb over the nozzle to make the stream more intense, and waved the hose up and down, thoroughly wetting his friend.

"Aah!" Veneziano yelled, trying to focus his own water spray a little more accurately. Soon both nations were laughing maniacally, wildly aiming their garden hoses, spluttering with the water that accidentally got into their mouths, and standing more or less in a puddle of soggy endive.

"Ve, this is so fun!" Veneziano yelled, and just as he stepped forward – his foot sinking into the fresh mud – the hoses went dry.

"What?" Switzerland asked in bemusement. "Did I run out of water? That's unusual." He removed his soggy beret and pushed wet hair out of his eyes.

They looked towards the house to see Liechtenstein standing by the faucet, her hands on her hips. "Switzerland! You are wasting water! I simply thought you would rather save money than shoot water all over your guest."

Switzerland's eyes widened and he seemed to recall himself to normal. "Please forgive me, Veneziano," he said politely, dropping the hose.

"Ve, it was totally fun, Switzerland. I hope it doesn't cost you too much money to pay for the water." He was sad. It really had been fun. "Oh, and by the way – after that, I will never believe you again, when you say you're antiwar!"

…

_The anagram was "Antiwar Endive Nozzles."_


	60. Denmark and Canada

_A little more suggestive than most. This pairing (and their anagram) was pretty bizarre, so I just let myself run with it._

…

**Denmark/Canada.**

Denmark awoke in the living room at Germany's house under a blanket, feeling someone lying on top of him. Ah, that felt nice. Surprisingly, he didn't feel very hung over; he wondered just which nation had decided to come and sleep with him. It was always fun waking up next to someone new! He figured it probably wasn't Prussia, even though they'd been drinking together most of the night; Prussia had his own bed, and wouldn't have chosen to snuggle up to Denmark so publicly anyway.

He finally opened his eyes and looked up at the body lying full-length on top of him. "America?" he said in amazement. But no…America had been wearing a pink bunny suit, and this nation was dressed as a – a mouse? Yep, that's what it looked like. Well, thank goodness it wasn't a fucking _mink_. Denmark snorted, and the mouse nation stirred, but didn't awaken.

Denmark looked objectively down at the guy in the mouse costume, whose hood had fallen back, exposing his soft blond hair. Huh. He did look a lot like America, but…cuter? And the mouse costume was much more adorable than the pink bunny suit. Denmark sighed happily, wrapped his arms around the mystery nation, and went back to sleep.

…

Canada awoke to the sound of Romano's yell, but when it stopped, he simply took a few deep breaths and relaxed his head back onto the broad chest it had been pillowed on. _Broad chest?_ Whoops. Who was he sleeping with? Er. Sleeping on top of. Canada felt himself blushing and turned his head slightly to see whose arms were holding him so protectively.

Denmark! Of all the nations he could have ended up with, why on earth was it Denmark? He watched the sleeping nation with a look of fondness on his face. If it hadn't been for Hans Island, he would be quite intrigued by waking up in Denmark's arms. And yes…he was decidedly _in Denmark's arms_ and not just passed out on top of him. At least he was still wearing his costume. Although he began to blush as he remembered that he was totally naked underneath it. He'd worried that the fake fur would be too warm here during summer in Germany.

He cast his mind back to the previous night. When he'd arrived, he'd spent a little time chatting to Veneziano, then his brother America; he'd seen Denmark and Prussia drinking together, but…how had he ended up in Denmark's arms? Here in this secluded corner of the living room? Still in a bit of a sleepy haze, he saw first Switzerland, then England and Romano, leave the house.

Well…it did feel nice in Denmark's arms, Hans Island or no. Canada decided to rest a little more – he did have a slight hangover – and closed his eyes to sleep some more, sighing contentedly.

…

When Denmark awoke again he reflexively cuddled the soft little mouse in his arms before realizing there was something wrong with his back. Was he sleeping in a funny position? No, he was still flat on his back. The blanket was still on him, and the mouse nation was still on top of the blanket, still stretched out full length. That felt so nice, but…Ah, maybe he was simply lying on his shirt, or a fold of blanket, or something. His beer hall waitress costume had been uncomfortable, so early in the evening he'd stripped all of it off except the dirndl. So yes, it was probably either his apron or his shirt wadded up underneath him. He shuffled a bit to get comfortable, trying to reach under and pull the offending garment out, and froze when he realized that not only was he missing his apron and shirt, but _also_ the dirndl! He appeared to be completely naked under the blanket.

Denmark blushed (rather uncharacteristically) and tried to focus on last night a little more sensibly. This was difficult, as he was still cuddling the mystery nation, who was quite warm and cozy…and...pressed up against him in so many places…

He tried to focus again. He'd drunk a lot with Prussia – something about "West's secret hoard of liquor" – but then they'd split up. By that point Denmark had stripped down to the dirndl, removing the braided flaxen wig as well. He'd gone in search of beer, and had found a few cold cans in the refrigerator. He remembered drinking them with someone. Was it this guy? He tried again to peer at the face of the nation who was snuggled up against his front, but…memory was not returning.

At this point Denmark once again remembered he was naked under the blanket, and began to panic.

Okay. First things first; he needed to get this shirt, or whatever, out from the small of his back, before he got a cramp. Trying not to disturb the cute little mouse, he once again slid his hand under the blanket, behind him, under his back, and his fingers touched – a can? A _can!_ Was it a can of beer? If so, why the hell was he laying down on it? Ah, it must be empty. He must have fallen on it when he passed out. He gently slid the can out from under him and looked at it.

_Not_ a beer can. A can of – of _maple syrup_?

Denmark was so confused he didn't even know what to think about first. The fact that Germany kept random cans of maple syrup lying around the house? Why the hell was it out in the living room? The fact that he'd been sleeping on a can of maple syrup all night? _Naked_? Well, at least the can wasn't _empty._ That would have been very worrying. At this, he snorted, and the little mouse stirred. Denmark hastily shoved the maple syrup can back under the blanket, and then looked at his companion, who was opening his beautiful blue eyes and looking right at Denmark, blushing.

"Good – good morning, Denmark," he said softly.

"Ca-Canada?" Denmark was astonished. Even more so than he'd been thirty seconds ago! How could he have partnered up with Canada, who kept pestering him over Hans Island? Huh, if Prussia saw this, he'd never hear the end of it.

"Did you sleep well?"

This innocuous question of Canada's sent Denmark into a flap. "I, uh, you – well, I – " Here, he realized he was babbling. He decided to go with "I apparently slept on a can of _maple syrup_ all night, and my back is killing me!"

"Oh! So that's where it went! Where is it now?"

"I, uh…it's under this blanket."

"Oh, good. I brought it as a gift for Germany, but then I lost it." He rolled off Denmark with a little smile. "Here, I'll get it. You rest your back. Stay under the warm blanket."

"No, no!" Denmark yelled, sitting up hastily, losing the blanket from the upper half of his body. Canada blushed, and then so did Denmark. Luckily the other sleeping nations in the room were oblivious.

Denmark lay back and tried to cover himself up again. "Here," he said, reaching the can out from under the covers and handing it to Canada. "I, I guess it's all right; it doesn't seem empty."

"I hope you didn't hurt your back, sleeping on it all night!" Canada petted Denmark's spiky hair for a moment, surprising the taller nation. "Thanks for letting me sleep with you," he continued, blushing again, and then tried to repeat his phrase in a less suggestive manner. "Thanks for letting me, uh, well, you know. You were very comfortable." He and Denmark both blushed again, and Denmark was once again reminded that he was naked under the blanket.

"Please just go give Germany his maple syrup," Denmark groaned. "I hope you had a good night's sleep, Canada, and I'll see you around." He stood up hastily, wrapping the blanket around him like a skirt, and shuffled off, looking for his discarded beer hall outfit.

Canada watched him go and then, with a tiny smile, put the maple syrup can into his bag, to take back home.

…

_The anagram was "Naked Can Drama."_

_Maple Syrup is the featured article on Wikipedia today!_


	61. Denmark and Austria

_Something about Denmark just makes me want to put him in embarrassing situations. _

…

**Denmark/Austria.**

He stalked off with the blanket covering his lower body, not even troubling to feel embarrassed about Canada anymore. Where the hell was his dirndl? Or, in fact, the rest of his costume? He was a little crabby.

And a little part of him wished that he and Canada weren't always feuding over Hans Island, but he didn't want to admit that to himself.

Denmark had no hesitation about opening guest bedroom doors and peeking inside. Of course he was simply looking for his costume, not trying to see who was in bed with whom, but…if he happened to see something interesting, that was always fun.

In the first bedroom, France and Spain were cuddled up together. Huh. No sign of his costume there, and nothing particularly interesting in the bed, either.

In the second bedroom, Poland's Marilyn dress was on the floor, and that blond was in bed with Lithuania (as expected) on one side of him and…Russia on the other? Denmark backed hastily out of the room, closing the door quietly. He would not want to be in that room when Poland woke up.

In the third room, which was actually Germany's bedroom, he found America, naked but for his underwear, sprawled on top of the blankets, and Japan, still in his lavender bunny suit, under the covers and facing the other way. No dirndl here.

And in the last guest room he found Austria, all alone, sitting up in the bed apparently naked, with the sheet wrapped around him like a demure maiden, wearing his glasses and fidgeting.

"Austria, are you all right?"

"Hello, Denmark. I – I'm not sure."

Denmark came into the room, first to look around for his costume - which wasn't there – and then to see if he could help the suffering brunet nation. "What's wrong?" He'd always considered Austria to be so graceful and elegant…he really hoped there was nothing too seriously wrong with him. Denmark reached out a hand and patted Austria's naked shoulder…suddenly remembering that he too was naked, under his blanket.

"I – I seem to have developed some kind of a rash," Austria stammered. "I don't know whether it's the laundry detergent that the costumers used, or what else it may have been. But my costume was so itchy that I had to find a bedroom and take – take all my clothes off." He blushed furiously, as did Denmark, and they both looked down at the sheet. "At least getting out of the costume stopped it from getting worse."

"Do you need anything? Ointment, or allergy pills or something? I'm happy to help," Denmark offered. "Uh, except I can't find my costume, and I didn't bring a bag with day clothes." Here, he mentally smacked himself in the head. Had he seriously intended to head back to his country in the stupid _dirndl_ costume? In broad daylight? Ugh.

"You were wearing that very nice beer hall waitress outfit, weren't you?" Austria asked, surprising him. "I was surprised at how easily you managed to carry it off. I suppose it takes a very manly man, like you, to get away with such a girly outfit."

Denmark didn't know whether to be complimented on his manliness or insulted about his girly costume. He took the high road. "Thank you, Austria." Here, he blushed and fidgeted on the bed a little. "I thought your equestrian outfit was very elegant. Surprised to see you carrying a riding crop."

Austria fiddled with the sheet. "In case Prussia bothered me," he admitted.

This made the blond laugh. "Did you get to use it?"

"No," Austria smiled in response. "He didn't come near me all night!"

"Well, if there's anything I can do to help you, just let me know. Did you bring spare clothing?"

"No; I hadn't considered that my costume was very unusual, so I'd planned to go home wearing it. But now I'm not sure that I can. My skin is all red."

"Your shoulders and arms look all right," Denmark said absently, stroking them. And then he saw the look of astonishment on his companion's face and quickly jerked his hand away; Austria dropped his eyes. "Forgive me," he apologized.

"It's – it's quite all right." Austria fiddled with the edge of the sheet again. "Perhaps – perhaps Germany could lend me something to wear, if you can find him?"

"Yes, I'll do that. But I still need to find my costume!" He yawned. "And I'm so tired, too. I slept on top of a can; it was digging into my back all night, and it hurts." He tried to rub his back, but he needed one hand to hold the blanket closed, so it wasn't very effective.

"You're certainly welcome to lie down here and rest," Austria offered. "I could try rubbing your back, but I've never been very good with – with massage."

Denmark was proud of himself for not stammering or blushing – seriously, two naked men wrapped in sheets and blankets, alone in bed, talking about massage? He was _very _proud of himself. He stood up. "Let me go see if I can find Germany and arrange some spare clothing for you. After we get you sorted, maybe I'll take you up on that offer. All right? Unless you're going to leave as soon as you get new clothing."

"I'm not sure. I'll wait here until you come back with Germany, or with some clothing for me."

"Right. Leave it to me." Denmark wandered out of the room with the blanket securely around him again.

Right out in the hallway, he found all the bits of his costume, neatly folded and in a pile. Well, what the hell? They definitely hadn't been there when he'd gone into the room with Austria. Where had they come from? And who had taken the trouble to fold them so neatly…and, for that matter, who exactly had seen him go into Austria's room? He hoped nobody was getting any funny ideas about that. It was bad enough that _he_ was getting funny ideas about that.

Denmark really did not want to put the damn dress on, not now in the cold light of day. Ah! He had a brilliant idea. He picked up all the pieces of his costume with one hand, stuffing them under the arm that was holding the blanket shut, and opened the door to Austria's room again. "Great idea, Austria! You can wear my costume! It was just lying out in the hallway; I must have missed it when I came in here before."

Austria shrugged. "But what will you wear? You said you hadn't brought any day clothes."

"Ah, I can get something from Germany, or maybe – uh – Russia, or something. Don't worry about me." If he had a choice between going home in a stupid dirndl or wearing Russia's clothes, it was obvious which he'd choose. "But let me see your back," he said. "You don't want to put anything on if your back still has a rash."

Austria turned in place on the bed and dropped the sheet.

"Nope. Looks good to me," Denmark said cheerfully, and then realized how that sounded. "I mean, you don't have any rash. Here you go." He tossed the shirt and dirndl on the bed. "I'm assuming you'll wear your own shoes? I don't know if mine would fit."

"Yes, that's fine," Austria said, still facing the other way. "I'll – are you going to lie down? Or do you want me to try giving you a backrub?" He turned back to face the Dane, but left the sheet down around his waist. Denmark was surprised to see how nice his body was.

He made an impulse decision. "Yeah, I could use that nap, but if you want to try giving me a backrub, that would be super sweet. A can was digging into the small of my back all night." Denmark climbed on the bed face-down, shimmying under the sheet, letting his blanket drop to the floor. He grinned at his companion, who turned sideways with a hesitant smile to begin giving him a backrub.

Out in the hallway, Hungary peeked through the door with glee.

…

_The anagram was "A Red Skin Trauma."_

_Everybody wants Denmark! Could this be the start of a beautiful relationship? _


	62. Austria and Chibiromano

**Austria/Chibiromano.**

"I'm pleased that we're putting out to sea together, little Romano," Austria offered. "And you can spend some time with your brother as well!"

"Cheh. The idiot's _sleeping_!" Romano growled a little, leaning over the edge of the railing.

"Don't lean out so far!" the older nation cried. "You'll fall in! You might get eaten by a seal or whale!"

"Do you actually think we're going to find any seals or whales?" Romano asked. "Are we really going to – to kill them?" The child looked a bit queasy at the thought.

Austria hunkered down and put a reassuring hand on Romano's shoulder. "Actually, I just thought it would be a nice adventure! I don't really care if we even _see_ a seal or a whale. It's a beautiful day, and it's so different for me to be on a boat!"

"It's a ship, not a boat," Romano pointed out.

"Ship, boat, whatever; I'm still enjoying it very much."

"Well, if we're _not_ going to hunt seals and whales, why did I have to bring the stupid toy harpoon?"

Austria decided to sit down on the deck; it would be easier than continuing to balance in a crouch. After he was situated, he looked back at little Romano. "There's been some trouble with a type of bird that's been terrorizing the coastline. France has asked us to try to find it and kill it, because the villagers are suffering."

"Why doesn't the bastard kill it himself?"

"Ah, apparently he can't catch it. But he's been trying from the landward side. He thought we might have better luck from the seaward side."

Romano appeared to be thinking about this. "So…what kind of stupid bird is it?"

"It's called a marabou. Like a stork."

"I don't even know what that looks like!"

Before Romano could throw one of his famous fits, Austria gently explained what a stork, and a marabou, looked like.

The young nation pursed his lips in thought, looking out over the railing. "So I can use my harpoon on it?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure whether a bird will make a proper target for a harpoon."

"Then I _still_ don't know why I had to drag it along, dammit!" He kicked the railing; Austria sighed and started to run a hand through his hair, before remembering that it was tied back. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his hands on the deck, watching the irritated Romano.

"You can use the seal gun if you like," he eventually offered.

"Yeah, bastard, thanks, maybe I will." After another minute spent contemplating the glittering sea, he sat facing it, on the deck, but kept talking. "So what is this bird actually doing? To get the villagers all pissed off?"

"The usual. Eating the crops, making a lot of noise…someone claimed it had stolen her baby, but then they found the baby in its cradle. The villagers seem to be thinking its histrionics make it some kind of demon. But you know how credulous villagers can be."

"Yeah."

Austria moved over to the deck to sit next to Romano – but not too close. They sat in silence a while.

"It is pretty nice out here, bastard. Thanks for inviting me."

Austria was stunned, but took care not to show it. "You're welcome. Is there anything you'd like? Coffee, something to eat? We can sit on the deck and eat."

"Mm, no thanks. I just want to sit here and watch the water."

So Austria too leaned back and gazed at the ocean for a while.

"Hey! What the hell's that?" Romano yelled, jumping up, and pointing to the shoreline.

Austria looked. People were screaming, running around like mad things, there was a noise audible even at this distance. A gun went off. People stopped running, but kept screaming.

"I'm willing to bet that's the marabou," Austria realized, standing up. "This is just where we need to be. Come on, let's get in the rowboat and head to the shore. Do you want to bring your harpoon?"

"No, bastard, it's too heavy, and I probably can't hit the stupid bird with it anyway."

They made their way to the rowboat, Austria shouldering the loaded seal gun and carrying spare powder and ammunition. A crewman began to row them towards the commotion.

"Why can't we just shoot it from on the ship?" Romano wondered.

"Well, first of all, the gun won't shoot that far, and second of all, I don't want to risk shooting a villager by accident!"

"Oh yeah." They were silent for the rest of the trip.

When they reached the shore Romano eagerly jumped out of the boat and splashed through the last little bit of water, but Austria waited until the boat had been firmly drawn up on the sand. He was a landlocked nation, and while this was an interesting adventure, he certainly didn't want to ruin his elegant clothing.

"There's the bird, bastard!" Romano jumped up and down, pointing. "Shoot it! Shoot it!"

Austria, alarmed at this bloodthirsty behavior, aimed the seal gun, but he couldn't shoot, because there were still too many people running around yelling. "I can't shoot, Romano. Can you make the people go away?"

Romano got an evil grin on his face. "Maybe. Maybe I can catch the fucking bird and then you can shoot it!" He ran towards the village, flapping his arms, kerchief awry, shouting out Italian curses. Most of the villagers looked at this tiny white-clad apparition screaming imprecations and fled into their homes. Romano kept yelling and cursing until every single villager was out of sight.

The marabou sat on the roof of a small hut and peered down at Romano, almost as if it were laughing at him.

"Shoot the damn bird, Austria!" he yelled.

Austria took aim and shot. He missed; the shot hit a water cistern and it exploded.

"Dammit!" Romano yelled, running back to the older nation. "Let me try! Please, bastard, please?" He looked so pleading and – and actually _adorable _– that Austria reloaded the seal gun and handed it to him.

Romano shouldered the heavy gun, aimed it at the still-watching marabou, and shot. He missed, and the shot went through the hut's roof. The bird leaped off the roof of the hut and began flapping wildly about; somehow without managing to actually leave the area.

"Do you want to try again?" Austria was already reloading the seal gun, but he hadn't noticed the hole in the hut's roof.

"Yes, yes, dammit! I love shooting guns!" When Romano took the gun from Austria he aimed a little more carefully and shot. Again, he missed the crazy bird, and the shot pierced the hut's roof thatch again.

"One more, I swear, I'll get it, if it keeps flapping around like that. I can see exactly what I did wrong," Romano said thoughtfully, one hand on his chin. "As long as it doesn't fly away…"

Austria finished reloading the seal gun and handed it back to the boy. "Here."

As he watched Romano aim again, he mused, "It's almost as if this bird is simply seeking attention. Why isn't it flying away?"

Romano pulled the trigger and the shot narrowly missed the bird, this time hitting a butter churn and shattering it.

"Arrêtez! Arrêtez!" someone yelled, and several village men came pouring out of their huts again before Austria could reload the seal gun. "Please, messieurs, do not do any more damage to our village! We prefer to take our chances with the marabou!"

…

_The anagram was "A Histrionic Marabou."_


	63. Austria and Romano

_Having just had Austria and Chibiromano, I thought maybe a modern-day Austria and Romano could be fun. _

…

**Austria/Romano.**

"Bastard, what's the matter with you?" Romano nudged the supine Austria with his foot.

"I'm so lonely."

"Hey, don't look at me!" Romano recoiled in shock.

"Oh, you're always so defensive, Romano. I wasn't trying to convey that at all. I just meant that…well…Switzerland had to go away this weekend, and I miss him, and I'm lonely. That's all." Here, the older nation sat up and looked quizzically at Romano. "But why are you mooching around alone? Why aren't you with England tonight?"

"Cheh, because the bastard's off with Switzerland, of course! I – I'm kind of lonely, too," he admitted, not looking at Austria.

"Would you like to go out for a drink? At least it will kill some time while we wait for them to get back."

"Sure, might as well."

Austria got up, dusted off his elegant casualwear, and they wandered off in search of a suitable bar.

"This place looks all right," Romano suggested.

"Oh, no, it's a dive! Come on; let's go to a hotel bar, somewhere cleaner and nicer."

"Chigi!" But Romano didn't argue further.

Eventually they came to a nice hotel that Austria claimed to know personally. "They always have a high class of clientele here."

Romano just shrugged and walked into the bar with him.

They sat at a little corner table so they could talk undisturbed. Ever since their seafaring adventure several centuries ago, they'd shared a tiny camaraderie when they were alone together: Romano didn't feel the need to be quite so defensive, and Austria didn't feel the need to boss him around like he did with almost everyone else. They sat companionably, Austria with Riesling, Romano with a Bloody Mary, not speaking for a while.

"Switzerland has been so good to me lately," Austria finally said. "Everyone's so frightened of him, because of his guns, but he's really a very dear man."

Romano was torn at this. He really didn't want to hear love talk about Switzerland! But on the other hand, he kind of felt like talking about England, and it would be rude to do that if he didn't listen to his companion. So he just shrugged. "You bastards have been together for a long time, haven't you?"

"On and off. I'm just happy it's on, right now. He's so stressed, and I do what I can to help him, but…it always makes me very sad when we're 'off again' and he won't let me help."

They drank in silence.

"What about you and England?" Austria finally asked. "You haven't been together very long, have you?"

Romano ordered another round of drinks before answering. "No, but…it's all good. He's a bastard just like everybody else, but…he's _my_ bastard."

The new drinks came.

"That's sort of how I feel about Switzerland. People may come and go, but he and I have been together for so long, I know we'll be together for a long time. Did I ever tell you about how he used to help me in the wars?"

Romano shook his head and finished his second drink.

Austria spent a little while telling Romano about the wars that had plagued his youth, and how close he and Switzerland had been at that point. Somewhere in the middle of this pro-Swissy panegyric, Romano ordered some more drinks, which came, and were finished, before Austria was done talking.

"You should switch to something else, bastard. Wine by the glass is not a cost-effective drink."

"And I do like to save money," Austria sighed happily. "Very well, next time, I'll have Scotch."

"Seriously? I had no idea you liked that stuff."

"Well, be fair, Romano, you and I haven't been spending a lot of time together lately."

"Yeah, all my free time is spent with England, the dumb blond." He laughed.

"How did the two of you start dating, anyway?" Austria asked him politely. "I don't believe I've ever heard the story."

So Romano spent a little while telling Austria about how England and he had first started to take an interest in one another, and how he, Romano, found England to be marginally less of a bastard than everyone else, so they'd decided to date. Somewhere in the middle of this paean to the island nation, Austria ordered another round of drinks, which they drank while Romano was winding up his little talk.

"That's a sweet story," Austria said, putting his chin on the table and swirling the last dregs of Scotch around in his glass. "Order me another drink."

Romano ordered two more drinks.

"Switzerland won't drink Scotch," Austria moaned, drinking the new drink.

"England won't drink Bloody Marys," Romano countered, leaning back against the chair, having already finished his.

They sat in silence for a little while. "But he's still my Swissy," Austria giggled, motioning the waiter over for another Scotch.

"Get me another one, bastard," Romano said weakly.

When the next drinks came, Austria suggested they trade. "I've never had a Bloody Mary. I'd like to try it." He then got the hiccups, and the two spent a funny five minutes trying to cure them. "Swissy cures hiccups with endive," Austria laughed.

"Don't talk to me about fucking _endive,_" Romano snorted. "My brother came home with about ten pounds of it last month, and we ate endive nonstop for a week!"

"Did it make you hiccup?" They both burst out laughing at this.

"Swissy sounds like an interesting guy," Romano admitted. "Even though he never shows it."

"And I know England is an interesting guy. We collaborated a lot in the old days, but…we don't talk much anymore."

Romano put his chin on the table, finishing Austria's Scotch. "I wish they'd get done with their fucking project."

"Me too. I miss Swissy."

"I miss England, too, the bastard."

…

Several hours later both England and Switzerland were called to the bar to pick up their passed-out friends. "Bollocks. Can't he ever learn when to stop? What a bloody stupid git," England growled, hoisting Romano over his shoulder.

"I agree," Switzerland scowled, trying to get a grip on Austria. "I'm so tired of pulling his brainless bacon out of the fire all the time."

"Relationships are hell" was the island nation's snarled response, and Switzerland nodded in agreement as they dragged their unconscious boyfriends out the door.

…

_The anagram was "Our Inamoratas."_

_I know technically Swissy and England would be "inamorato" and not "inamorata," but…that's not an anagram for them. And technically also, I believe the plural of "inamorata" would still be "inamorata," anyway…like "samurai" and "ninja," kesesese…but the anagram generator gave me "Our Inamoratas," and I'm sticking with it!_


	64. Denmark and America

**Denmark/America.**

After Austria had finished giving him the meager backrub, Denmark fell asleep again. When he awoke, Austria was gone, so he got out of the bed, pilfering the sheet instead of the blanket he'd come in with. Damn. Now that Austria had gone home in his dress, he had literally nothing to wear. Well…except his boots. Oh, and Austria had left the flaxen wig. Denmark snorted. A lot of help that would be. Maybe he could cover his – oh, forget it.

Should he approach Russia for some clothing? But if Russia was still in bed with Poland and Lithuania, he really did _not_ want to go into that room and wake him. Them. _Any_ of them.

Oh! That's right; he'd seen America somewhere, hadn't he? Surely America's clothes would fit him – or at least come close. Failing that, he supposed he could always ask Germany.

He went back to Germany's bedroom and cracked the door open. America was still sprawled on the bed, asleep, but Japan and his furry bunny suit seemed to have left. Denmark started to feel a little sleepy, watching America sleep, so he dropped his sheet and slipped under the covers. He knew he'd awaken when America started to stir, so he might as well take another nap.

He woke up later with America snuggling behind him, arms around him, rubbing their feet together with the sheet between them. Man, this had been one hell of a morning! He smiled and lay contentedly on his side, allowing the heroic nation to continue holding him.

"Are you awake, Denmark?"

He nodded. "Yep. How are you?"

"I feel great!" America yelled in his ear.

"Ow."

"Oh. Sorry. Do you have a hangover?" America petted Denmark's spiky hair.

"No! I just don't like having anyone yell in my ear!"

"Oh, I really am sorry. I was just so excited. I really do feel great."

"Let me roll over" was Denmark's response, and America loosened his arms a little so that Denmark could roll to face him. They grinned at each other. America really looked so cute without his glasses. And having thought that, Denmark's mind went immediately back to Canada, in his mouse costume, and how he'd felt lying on top of him…and then Denmark remembered that he was _still fucking naked_ under the damn sheet! This may have been the longest consecutive time he'd ever spent naked. Hm. He'd have to think about that later, though...

"Uh," he blurted out. Luckily America was still on top of the sheet.

"What's wrong? You don't really mind me hugging you, do you?"

Denmark grinned in spite of himself. "Nah. You really are much cuter without your glasses, just like Canada." Whoops. His thoughts went back around the track again, this time detouring to think about naked Austria giving him a backrub.

"Seriously, dude, are you all right? Your face is all red!"

Of course it was. "I really need to find myself a date," he muttered, without thinking.

Just then a camera flash went off in the room, and the embracing nations looked up to find Japan, still in his lavender bunny suit, standing at the foot of the bed snapping photographs of them.

"Japan! What are you doing, man?" America let go of Denmark and sat up.

Japan took another picture. "Why are you embracing him, America-san? I thought you were _my_ escort to this party." His voice was calm, but he was pressing the camera buttons almost angrily.

"Hey, no worries! Denmark was in the bed with me, and I – I thought it was you, so I cuddled up with him! That's all, right, Denmark?"

The Dane nodded in agreement. "Seriously, Japan, there's nothing going on here."

Japan continued to snap photographs with an inscrutable expression. "Yet you said you were looking for a date."

"That was just thinking out loud. I didn't want to ask _America_ to date me!"

"Why not?" America demanded.

Japan kept taking photos.

"Because I knew you were dating Japan!"

"I'm not dating Japan!"

Japan paused. "Indeed." Then he went back to furiously pressing the camera buttons.

Denmark was mighty puzzled. "If you're not dating him, then why is he so angry about finding us snuggled up in bed together?" This scene was so strange that he didn't even care how that sounded. He pushed a hand through his hair and started to get out of the bed, before remembering that he _was_…_still_…_naked_! He flopped back down onto the bed with a groan.

"I'm not angry at all, Denmark-san. I'm simply _irked._"

Oh, well that made a difference, did it? "Listen, America, I only came in here to see if I could get some clothes, because I gave mine to Austria."

America boggled. "You gave your clothes to Austria? Then why the hell aren't you with him now?"

Denmark shook his head and rolled face down on the bed. "Japan, will you please get out of here and stop with the fucking _pictures_?"

Japan paused in his mad photography and bowed. "I believe I have captured the essence of the scene."

"Are you still _irked_?" America giggled.

Japan didn't dignify that with an answer, merely left the room. America turned his attention back to Denmark.

"Uh – are you – are you all right, or what?"

Denmark didn't answer for a few minutes. Then he said, in an infuriated voice, "America, _do you have any spare clothing?_"

"Uh, well, no. I brought something for me to wear home, but only that one outfit. I'm not going to go home in the bunny suit." Here he lay down and wrapped an arm around Denmark again. "Please don't be angry. I – if you want to go out on a date, I will?"

"You're an idiot."

"Ha ha! A lot of people tell me that, but I know it can't be true. I'm too heroic."

"If you're so heroic, go find me something to wear. Not your bunny suit." Denmark still had his face buried in the pillow.

"Can do! You stay in this bed; I'll be back!"

America hopped eagerly off the bed and set off on his heroic mission, clad only in his Stars & Stripes boxers.

…

_The anagram was "Irked Cameraman."_

_Stay tuned. This party ain't over yet._

_Only America could possibly claim that he mistook Denmark for Japan...and get away with it!_


	65. America and Poland

_Wah! Sorry I'm so late with this one. Crazy day of housework and overdue real work._

…

**America/Poland.**

America left Denmark snoozing, or possibly sulking, in the bed, and wandered off down the spacious hallway. He was really glad he'd gotten to sleep in Germany's own bed last night, instead of a guest bed; guest beds were notoriously uncomfortable. He really did feel great this morning…and if all this nonsense meant he'd get a date with Denmark out of it, so much the better! It was true that he wasn't actually dating Japan, even though they'd decided to wear matching costumes. He hoped the dark nation hadn't gotten too _irked_ – here he giggled – about him saying that. Denmark was much more his style, loud and fun. And…he liked to snuggle! How surprising was that! Japan _never_ liked to snuggle, and America…well, he could snuggle all day long, if he had the chance.

He hummed happily as he opened the door to a guest room, trying to find something suitable for his good friend Denmark to wear.

Huh. A giant bed, and the only person in it was Poland. That was surprising. America thought back to Poland's Marilyn Monroe getup, which he could see was now hanging neatly on a hanger over the closet door, and he was pretty impressed with how good a job the man had done. Although technically leopard print was not really Marilyn, but more of a Jayne Mansfield thing…or Jean Harlow…or even Norma Desmond…he grinned as he thought back to his golden age of cinema and everyone from starlets to aging actresses who had popularized the leopard-fur clothing look. Good times, good times…leopard print really could be glamorous on the right woman, he admitted…

…or on the right man, as he thought, still grinning, while idly looking at Poland asleep.

No. Poland _awake._ "Hey, what are you staring at?" the supine nation asked, rather acidly.

"Uh, nothing, really, sorry. I was just thinking about – about your costume, and how effective it was! You looked really great in it!" America beamed, and Poland broke into a smile.

"I found your bunny costume to be particularly adorable," that nation said, "although…the way you look right now…" He looked pointedly at America's Stars & Stripes with a grin and the taller nation blushed, coming to sit on the bed.

"So why are you, like, here?" Poland went on. "You didn't come in here just to stare at me, did you?" He blew America a flirtatious kiss. "Not that I'd really mind, staring doesn't hurt, but, you know, Liet might get upset if he found out we were in bed together." Here, he beamed.

"Aw, no, but thanks for reminding me. I wouldn't want to upset my old friend Lithuania. I came to look for some clothes for Denmark. He – uh – well, he doesn't have anything to wear."

"Well, he's totally not getting his hands on my leopard costume!" Poland exploded. "That thing cost me a fortune to have custom-tailored! The pencil skirt alone took six fittings!"

America placed a hand on Poland's shoulder. "Please – please don't be so tense! Seriously. Calm down, don't be a maniac. You're acting like Prussia."

Poland snorted.

"Anyway, I didn't mean that. I was just wondering if anyone had brought spare clothing they could lend him."

"Are you _crazy_?" Poland yelled again. "You really think my clothes are going to fit – fit _Denmark_? He's like ten feet tall!"

"Poland, shut up!"

"Don't tell me to shut up! You're just a pipsqueak, you newcomer! Shut up and get out of the room!"

"Poland," America whined. "Just get a grip, and stop yelling at me. All I wanted was to find some clothes for my friend Denmark. I didn't mean to offend you or upset you in any way."

Poland huffed and crossed his arms, looking away.

"Uh, so, since you don't have anything that would fit him, does anybody else? Did you really manage to sleep alone in this big bed all night?"

"No," Poland replied with an arch grin, "I actually managed to sleep with both Russia and Liet! It was totally sexy."

"Uh…_Russia_?" America's eyes widened.

"Ah, it wasn't a problem; he was totally soused on Sangria, so he just wandered in and passed out on the bed. But I did feel pretty happy, sleeping between the two of them."

America smiled at him. "You really are a maniac, Poland. Did either of them leave any clothing here?"

"Take a look around. You know nothing of Liet's would fit Denmark either, but…Russia may have left something."

After a bit of rummaging around, America did come up with a pair of pants that looked like they might have belonged to Russia. He held them up against himself and they looked like they'd fit, so…they'd probably fit Denmark. He decided to take them. "Uh."

"'Uh,' what?" Poland asked, finger-combing his hair and smirking as he looked in the mirror.

"If these are Russia's pants…what the heck is he wearing right now?"

The two nations burst into laughter. "He, like, better not be trying to get into my costume," Poland cautioned, and the idea of Russia wearing the form-fitting leopard-skin suit made them both laugh even harder.

"It's right there on the door!" America pointed out, wheezing.

"Good. That snowbound freak had better not try to take it." Poland looked a little angry at this point.

"Wow. That was some good laugh therapy," America admitted. "I'd better get these pants to Denmark before Russia comes back. I really don't want to explain to him why I swiped them."

"Yes, that's probably a good idea." Poland turned back to him and smiled. "Whatever you like, America. Thanks for coming to see me in bed!" He blew America another kiss.

"You really are crazy, Poland. Up one minute, down the next?"

"It makes life more interesting that way!"

America gave a short bark of laughter, waved, and walked out the door.

…

_The anagram was "Leopard Maniac."_


	66. Denmark and Russia

**Denmark/Russia.**

The sangria-soused Russia, having awoken next to Poland and not wanting to deal with that so early, while he was still hung over, decided to go seek out some hair of the dog to get rid of his headache. Dressed only in his underwear, he stumbled out of the room, first stopping off in Germany's guest bathroom, and then padding down to the kitchen quietly, so he wouldn't awaken any of the other sleeping nations, of whom there appeared to be quite a few. He wondered whether anyone had actually left last night, or whether every nation at the party had passed out somewhere. He was thankful he'd found a bed, and not had to sleep on the floor, like those two. Was that Greece over there, cuddling his little Latvia? He'd think about that later.

Huh. The kitchen floor was covered in fake blood. He wondered idly what he'd missed.

After rummaging around a bit, he found a dusty half-bottle of bourbon in a cabinet. Russia didn't like bourbon, mostly because America drove him crazy, but at this point, bourbon would do. He took the bottle, intending to find an unoccupied bed and drink it before lying down to sleep some more.

Well, he knew Poland was in _that_ room. Hm, France and Spain in this room, boring, although he could certainly kick them out if he felt like it. But he didn't feel like it yet; his head was pounding, and he made a mental note not to drink sangria anymore. He moved on.

The next bedroom had Denmark on the bed, face down. Well, that was interesting. Russia hadn't spent too much time with Denmark. Before he could make up his mind about this, Denmark said, "Is that you, America? Did you bring me some clothes?"

"Nyet, it's not America," Russia responded, impulsively deciding to come into the room. He shut the door behind him and came over to sit on the bed. "It's me, Russia."

"Yeah, I figured that out," Denmark said, still keeping his face pressed into the pillow.

"Why is America looking for your clothes? I thought you were here as Prussia's date?" Russia leaned back against the headboard. "Do you want a drink? I found some bourbon downstairs."

Denmark actually looked up at that. Russia was smiling at him, but…Russia smiled at everyone. "Sure, I'll have a swig," he said, rolling over.

Russia noticed that he seemed to be contorting himself in an unusual way. "Are you hurt?" he asked the blond. "You don't seem to be very flexible." He handed Denmark the bottle. "Perhaps you're hung over?"

"Nah, I didn't drink enough, just a couple bottles of rum. No, my back is sore because I passed out on top of a can, and it was digging into my back all night."

Russia took the bottle back and took a deep drink. "You know, in Russia we have a grand tradition of massage," he finally said, placing the bottle on the night table. "Would you like me to give you a backrub? I don't really mind."

"Sure, that would be great. Austria tried, earlier, but he wasn't very good at it." Denmark rolled onto his front and Russia pushed the sheet down so that the blond's broad back was fully exposed.

"Brace yourself," Russia said cheerfully, "this kind of massage can hurt, but when it's done, you are guaranteed to feel better."

"Go for it," Denmark laughed, so Russia went for it.

About fifteen minutes later, Denmark was near comatose, lying in a little puddle of drool, and Russia, pleased with his skills, was lying next to him on his back, finishing up the bourbon. "Do you want another drink?" he offered politely. "It's almost gone."

"Nh," Denmark moaned. Russia wasn't quite sure what that meant, so he drank all the bourbon except for a generous swig, which he saved until Denmark was ready to make a real decision about it.

"Perhaps I should get over my annoyance with America and start drinking bourbon more often," Russia mused. "It is really quite tasty. I'll ask him to send me a case, and spend some time testing it out."

"Bourbon is all right, but not as good as rum," Denmark offered.

"Rum? Psht. Rum is nothing. Vodka is a true man's drink."

Denmark didn't reply.

"Are you asleep?" Russia poked him.

"No, just relaxing after your magnificent backrub. You really are good at that."

Russia idly ran a palm up and down Denmark's back again. "Come and see me if you ever want another one. I don't mind." Here, he reached the arm holding the bottle over Denmark and waved it in his face. "Do you want the last little bit?"

"Sure. Can you hold it up to my mouth? I really, _really_ do not feel like moving now."

So Russia rolled over a little more, raised up on one elbow, the other arm around Denmark, holding the bottle to the blond's lips like a baby bottle. Denmark tilted his head, and Russia tilted the bottle for him, and just as he finished the last of the bourbon, America walked in the door, holding a pair of pants, and stopped short.

"R- Russia?" he stammered. "Denmark?"

"Oh, hey, America," Denmark said, but before he could speak again, Russia had leaped off the bed.

"America! Thank you for finding my pants!" He grabbed them and put them on right away. "And that bourbon I found in Germany's kitchen was very good stuff. Send me a few cases, will you?" he asked, walking out the door.

…

_The anagram was "A Masseur Drink."_

_Of course Russia knows fake blood when he sees it._


	67. America and Denmark

_Yes, I know we just had them, but…it felt so inconclusive!_

…

**America/Denmark.**

"Denmark, I'm really sorry," America whined, flopping down on the bed, removing his glasses and placing them on Germany's bedside table. "I thought I had it all heroically worked out! I found a pair of pants that would have fit you – probably – and then Russia ran off with them." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, turning to look at his near-comatose friend. "What's the matter with you, anyway? You look half-dead all of a sudden."

"Russia gave me a massage," he croaked out in response. "It was very – therapeutic – but now I can barely move." He groaned a little. "Can I – can I ask you a favor?"

He sounded kind of timid, which was unlike him. America rolled onto his side and put his arm around him, remembering that Denmark liked to snuggle, and moved his head closer on the pillow. "Sure, you can always ask me a favor."

"Uh," was Denmark's only response.

"What? Is this bothering you? Do you want me to stop?" But he didn't take his arm away.

"N-no. I was actually going to ask you if you'd snuggle with me for a little while."

Awesome! America moved closer and tightened his embrace. "I really do love to cuddle," he sighed, "but nobody ever wants to."

The two friends lay nestled together for a few minutes before Denmark offered, "Maybe we could be friends with snuggle benefits?" They both laughed a little at that. "I feel kind of miserable today," he went on.

America leaned up on an elbow, and ran his other hand soothingly up and down Denmark's back. "What's wrong? You always seem so on top of the world, dude."

"Well, normally, _normally_, my life is not as weird as it's been today! First I woke up in the living room snuggled up with – with Canada."

"Seriously? Wow, he never snuggles either. Too aloof. Denmark, something must just inspire you to make people want to cuddle you! But waking up with Canada's not so bad. What else happened?"

"I was…well, I still _am_, as you know, naked."

"Yeah, I do—_What_? You were snuggled up naked with my twin brother?" America got a little offended at that. Like maybe Canada had given Denmark the brush-off, so he'd come up here to take second-best? No, that couldn't possibly be right, but…

"That's not how it was. I don't remember getting naked, and I had a blanket on top of me, and Canada was still in his costume, on top of the blanket, and I don't remember how he got there, and he didn't tell me!"

America thought about this for a few minutes and decided to let it slide. "Well, that's still not too weird, at least not at one of _these_ parties! Just because you lost your costume…"

Here, Denmark interrupted with the story about Austria's back rash and the donation of the dirndl costume.

"Whoa. So you woke up naked with my brother, then you went to bed naked with Austria…who was also naked…and he gave you a backrub." America was beginning to fidget. All this talk of naked people in bed was giving him _ideas._ Especially because Denmark was still naked in _this_ bed, and he, America, might as well be.

But Denmark interrupted him to remind him of their previous time together this morning, when he had awakened to find America cuddling him.

Here, America realized he'd stopped cuddling, and went back to doing it, squeezing Denmark around the waist to make up for his inattention earlier.

And then Denmark told him about Russia and the backrub.

"At least Russia wasn't naked," America offered. "That would have been very weird."

"Kind of creepy, too." Denmark paused. "And now here I am again with you, cuddled up again, and _I still don't have any fucking pants! _Didn't you see Germany when you were wandering around out there?"

"I don't think anybody's seen him all morning! I wonder where he went."

"Ah, never mind. I can tell, the way this day is going, he's going to show up in this room and get in the bed with me, too."

"Awesome, dude! Then when he gets here, you can just ask him for the pants!"

"You really are an idiot."

"Haha! Not me, Denmark. Hey, are you still zoned from that backrub or can you roll over?"

"I can roll over, but why would I want to?"

"So we can get closer!" Yep. Here came those _ideas_ again.

"Sure," Denmark laughed. "What the hell." He rolled onto his side and America embraced him with a great big beaming smile. This really was turning out to be a very good day, no matter how bizarre it had been for Denmark. He hummed a little as they settled themselves, still with the sheet between them.

"You still look pretty sleepy," he noticed.

"I _feel_ pretty sleepy! I don't even think I drank that much, but…what time is it, anyway?"

"I don't want to let go of you to check the clock," America grinned.

"Aw. You're such a big sap." Denmark poked him in the cheek affectionately before putting his arm around the heroic nation.

"Can you blame me? It's not every day I get to lay around with a hot, naked Nordic nation!"

Denmark blushed a little. Aw…that was _adorable._ America almost leaned over for a kiss, but he realized that if his friend were that sleepy, it wouldn't be fair to spring that on him so suddenly. He settled for stroking the spiky hair away from Denmark's face.

"Are you really this deprived?" that nation asked. "I can't believe that _you_, of all people, don't have nations queuing up to jump into your arms all the time."

"Not me," America sighed. "I think everyone's afraid of me."

Denmark reached out a hand and smoothed the hair away from his companion's face, this time. "I don't see why. You're so sweet and warm."

America looked into Denmark's beautiful eyes and happy smile, and decided what the hell, he'd go for that kiss. Just as he began to lean closer, closing his eyes, the door opened.

"What is going on here? In _my bed?_" Germany bellowed.

"See, I told ya!" Denmark laughed.

…

_The anagram was "Make Nicer Drama."_

_I'm going to keep my eye on these two. Maybe something will develop._


	68. Germany and Denmark

**Germany/Denmark.**

"Hey, Germany," America said in resignation. "Did you bring Denmark any pants?"

Denmark rolled over onto his back so he could face his host. "Hi. Well, first I want to know if you're going to get in bed with me."

Both America and Germany looked at him in astonishment: America, disappointed, and Germany, well, the only word for it was _freaked out._

"What?" Denmark asked. "I'm just testing the law of averages," he explained to America, who huffed and got off the bed.

"Why would I want to get in bed with you, Denmark?" Germany still looked mighty perplexed.

"Why not? Everybody else does!"

"That is not why I'm here! This is my bed, and I was hoping to find it unoccupied! Or at least find Japan! He was the only one permitted to use this bed."

"He totally did," America explained, "he and I slept here, and then when Denmark came, he took some pictures of us in bed together and left."

Denmark couldn't contain his laughter at the sight of Germany's face. "Oh, come on, man, nothing – dodgy – went on in this bed! Well, not after I got here, anyway. Well, not unless you count when Russia and I were in bed and then America came and joined us."

Germany's face was getting redder and angrier, just like it did at meetings, when nobody would focus. Denmark always enjoyed making him freak out this way, so he tried to wind him up a little tighter. "Austria was in bed with me for a while, too…that was before Russia."

America finally realized what Denmark was doing, and after stifling a laugh and looking at Germany's clenched hands, he sat back on the bed, reached for Denmark, and said to their host, "It's totally all right, bro! We kept it clean, didn't we? I mean, just because Denmark and Austria were in bed together…_naked_…"

"Aaaah!" Germany screamed. "Get out of my bed! Get out of my _house_! This is not some kind of stupid Eurotrash orgy! Get out!"

"Aw, man, you can't call me Eurotrash," America pointed out, still snuggling up to Denmark.

"I don't care _what_ I call you, you are to get…out…_now!" _Germany's face was a dangerous shade of crimson – almost the same color as Prussia's eyes – but Denmark and America couldn't stop themselves.

"I'd be happy to leave, Germany," Denmark said, wrapping an arm around America, "but I don't have any clothes."

"You _what_?" Germany opened his eyes, which had been squinched shut in anger, and glared at his guest. "What happened to your clothes?"

"I gave them to Austria."

"You…gave your clothes to Austria." Germany sank his face into his hands, taking deep calming breaths. "Why did Austria need clothes, or shouldn't I even ask?"

"He got a rash from his costume. It made his skin hurt, so he had to get naked."

Here, America started laughing, and Germany turned red again, dropping his hand.

"I am not equipped to deal with this sort of thing after a hellacious party like last night," Germany muttered.

"Hey, if you get naked and hop in bed with us, we'll see how well you're _equipped,_" was America's sophomoric response, which did, however, make Denmark laugh.

"Will it get you out of here if I get in bed with you?" was the surprising response from Germany. He still wasn't looking at them.

Denmark and America looked at each other in surprise. "Yes," they chorused, then laughed, and America added, "But Denmark has to be in the middle."

"That's – that's fine," Germany ground out.

"Are you going to get naked?" Denmark asked artlessly, scooting into the middle of the big bed.

"No! I am simply going to get in the bed with you long enough to satisfy you—" (here America started sniggering again) "- and then get out of the bed, as will you, and you will leave!"

"As long as you give me some pants. I'm not going to walk around your house wrapped in a sheet anymore; I've been doing that all damn day!"

"Denmark," Germany growled in a dangerous voice.

"Oh, just shut up and get in the bed, dude," America laughed.

Germany hesitantly crossed to the vacant side of the bed. Before he sat down, America said, "Hey, this is going to be just like what Poland did last night!"

Neither of the other two nations had any idea what he was talking about, so as Germany sat on the bed, he explained, "Poland slept in the middle between Lithuania and Russia last night!"

Denmark boggled, but Germany leaped back off the bed.

"Get out of here now, you damn Yankee!"

America started laughing so hard at that archaic term. Even Denmark realized how out of date it was. "Germany, you've been reading southern novels again, haven't you?" he asked.

"It does not matter. I refuse to get onto a bed with all this suggestive talk going on. I want you two to get out of this bed and go discuss your – your _merger_ somewhere else!"

"Our – _merger?"_ Denmark asked in amazement.

"Hey, if you want to merge with me, Denmark, that's A-OK!" America wrapped his arms around his tall blond friend again, but Germany, who was standing by, let out a yell.

"What is it going to take?"

"A pair of fucking _pants!_" Denmark finally yelled, goaded into losing his temper. "Damn it, Germany, how many times do I have to ask you? Give me the damn pants and I'll go, but otherwise, I have _nothing to wear._"

"That's all you want?" Germany asked in a tiny voice, as if he couldn't believe it could be that easy.

"Yes! I've been trying all morning to find a pair of pants that will fit me, and you were my last hope!"

"Well, in that case…" Germany crossed to a dresser, pulled out a pair of jeans, and flung them at Denmark's head. Denmark sat up and tried to shimmy into the pants without losing the discreet protection of the sheet. After he'd gotten them up enough of the way to ensure some coverage, he hopped out of the bed to finish struggling into them.

Germany, who appeared quite worn out from all this, came and sat on the vacant side of the bed again. He and America kept their eyes averted from Denmark.

"What the fuck's up with these pants?" Denmark asked. The other two tried not to stare, but Denmark (who had his back to them) could barely get the pants up past his knees. "You need a new brand of laundry detergent! These things wouldn't fit a child!"

At that, Veneziano walked into the room, staring at his boyfriend on the bed, the half-clad Denmark, and the laughing America. "Ve, why are you wearing my pants, Denmark?"

Germany stuffed his head under a pillow. "Everybody out!"

…

_The anagram was "Damn Yank Merger." Well, America was still in the room!_


	69. England, Romano and Sealand

_I'm breaking a rule I made earlier. I don't feel like starting a whole new story about the dragon/tiara/etc., at least not yet. Besides, I wanted to write about that suit again. So here we go._

_..._

**England/Romano/Sealand.**

In the morning, Lovino woke up and stretched in the warmth before fully recalling the adventures of last night. Could that really all have happened? He opened his eyes to find that the sandy island, at least, was real; he was lying on his back in the clearing. There was no sign of Arthur.

Well, he needed to find him; Lovino didn't like the idea of being all alone in a strange place – a very strange place - with a dragon roaming around! He peered through the palm fronds to see if there was any movement around.

Then he heard footsteps behind him, and stilled, fearing to turn around. His heart began pounding; he stood up slowly and clenched his hands into fists.

"Morning, wanker," Arthur said casually.

"Bastard! You scared the shit out of me! What are you doing sneaking around like that?"

"Huh, I knew you wouldn't be so romantic in the cold light of day." But Arthur was smiling at him, which was good.

Lovino spared a minute to look at his friend's new outfit. Boy, if that's what magic did for people, count him out. Arthur was now wearing a girly-looking blue velvet suit, trimmed with lace and little white pearl buttons, but instead of pants, the bottom half was _shorts_. Shorts that reached nearly to his knees, it's true – and he still had his boots on – but shorts nonetheless. Shorts that to Lovino's practiced eye looked a little bit too tight. Hmm.

Arthur noticed him staring. "Don't say a word. This is the stupidest outfit I've ever had to wear, anywhere, ever."

"Worse than the dress?" Lovino managed.

"Well…_no._ All right. But this is pretty stupid."

Lovino wanted to give him a reassuring hug, but it was true, in the cold light of day he felt a little skittish about doing so. "How late is it? The sun is up pretty high."

"Oh, the sun rises really early here. We're at Land's End, remember? Come on, I scrounged up something for you to eat, and then we need to find that dragon again."

They walked back to the beach where they'd landed the previous night. Lovino walked behind Arthur and discovered that he'd been right, and those shorts were indeed too tight. It was difficult to restrain himself from caressing that firm, velvet-clad bottom. He was just about to reach out and do it when they reached the beach and the dragon reared its gigantic black head, frightening Lovino into stepping back a few paces.

The dragon looked much fiercer in daylight. "Uh – bastard – are you sure we're safe from that thing?"

"Remember it wants me to help un-enchant it. We're safe."

They walked along further to the cache of island fruits that Arthur had found for his friend. "Here, eat what you want; I'll go talk to the dragon."

Lovino sat next to the fruits and selected one at random as he watched Arthur walk away. He grinned. Yep, this was still a fun adventure!

The dragon leaned its head down and Arthur spoke to it, although Lovino couldn't hear what he said. By the time he'd finished four fruits, of what type he didn't know, Arthur had returned.

"All right. I've got to draw a mandala in the sand; not a big one, but it has to be accurate and undisturbed. Don't come too close. If the lines get scuffed, I'll have to start all over."

"If I stay here, is that all right?"

"Yes, that's fine. I'll be working over in the wet sand over there."

"How long will this take? And what's it all about?"

"I'm going to use the mandala to figure out who this dragon really is. After I know that, I can work out how to transform it back. This part shouldn't take more than about half an hour. If you want to go in swimming you can, just stay well back from where I'm working, okay?"

Swimming in this nice clear water actually sounded like fun. Lovino nodded and sat back to consider this, then decided he'd wait until later. He wanted to watch and see what a mandala was all about. He kept an eye on the dragon while this was going on, too; despite Arthur's reassurances, he couldn't quite trust that it would remain as calm as his friend had claimed.

Arthur moved to the patch of wet sand with a twig in his hand and began sketching a shape. Lovino watched him pace in slow movements, almost like a dance, seeming to count his steps, then spin, twirling the twig; he could hear Arthur's chanting at this distance, but not understand the words.

He then completed the mandala. Lovino could tell because he threw the twig away and dusted his hands off like any workman when a job is done. His friend then stood with his back to the sea, arms spread and facing the dragon, who breathed over the etched design, filling it with flame.

When the flames died, the surface of the sand was black, the mandala fused into the sand. Arthur cast a handful of grasses into the center and observed them. Then he picked a fruit from a nearby tree, broke it awkwardly in half, and dropped both halves into the center of the design, watching the way they rolled. He stepped back, frowning, to get another fruit – at least, that's what it looked like to Lovino – and a bird, a big black and white speckled thing, flew right over the mandala.

"Bollocks!" Arthur yelled, and the bird started flapping wildly, as though it were trapped; Lovino couldn't see any reason for it to be acting this way, unless it was a problem with the magic. Arthur grabbed a handful of sand and three fruits and tossed them all into the center of the mandala haphazardly, chanting, and the bird righted itself and flew desperately away into the trees. Arthur sank to his bare knees in the wet sand, cursing, and the dragon turned away, as if irritated.

"Don't blame me!" Arthur hollered at it.

The dragon let out a little gust of flame, but it wasn't aimed at Arthur.

Lovino got up and walked over to his friend. "It didn't work, did it?"

"No. The blasted loon broke the spell."

"Can you try again?"

"Yes, but I have to move to a new patch of sand, and I'm exhausted. If it wouldn't ruin this stupid suit, I'd flop back down right here and sleep."

"Why don't we go swim for a little while? Your suit won't get ruined if you take it off, and the water looks really inviting."

Here, Arthur scowled with a raised eyebrow. "You just never stop, do you? Swim if you want. I'm going to sleep right here, screw the bloody suit." He flopped back on the sand and closed his eyes.

Lovino stared at him for a moment and then wandered away to take off his clothing and swim. "Bastard."

…

_The anagram was "Loon Endangers Mandala."_


	70. Denmark and Prussia

**Denmark/Prussia.**

Germany got off the bed and marched to the door, but Denmark crawled back in the bed, peeling off Veneziano's jeans under the sheet.

"Denmark, get out," Germany growled.

"I _can't_ get out. I still don't have any _pants~,"_ he pointed out in a singsongy voice. America, apparently to show support, scooted over to hug Denmark. Veneziano just stood and stared with his jaw dropped and his eyes wide.

"Ve~" was all he could say for a little while.

Meanwhile, America and Denmark started rubbing noses, trying not to laugh as they listened to Germany's growling.

Finally Germany turned and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

"What exactly is going on here?" Veneziano finally managed.

Once again Denmark tried – without embellishments or detours – to explain his rather urgent need for a pair of pants.

"But why were you wearing my pants? They would never fit you!"

America explained what had happened.

This was making Denmark so discouraged that he flopped face-down on the bed again and buried his face in the pillow. America rolled onto his side and began stroking his back with the long, soothing strokes again. Veneziano came and sat on the other side of the bed.

"Would you like me to get in bed with you?" he asked.

"I don't even care anymore."

"My poor Denmark," America crooned softly, though Denmark could hear the suppressed laughter in his voice. "Don't you worry. I won't leave you until we get this heroically figured out." He stroked Denmark's hair and snuggled up closer to him, but Denmark didn't even answer.

"I didn't know you two were dating," Veneziano said. "I always thought Denmark was dating Prussia! And you, America, with Japan!"

"I came to this party with Japan, but after some of the stuff I saw him doing this morning, I don't want to date him! Who knows what evil schemes he'd be up to when I was asleep! Ha ha!"

Denmark did laugh a little, at that, but his head was still pushed into the pillow. "I'm not dating Prussia" was all he offered.

"Ve, you guys are all so confusing."

"All I want is something to _wear_," Denmark whimpered.

Veneziano reached over and started petting his hair, since America was back to stroking his back. Denmark's body started to shake dramatically, like a seizure.

"Are you all right, dude?" America took his hand away. So did Veneziano.

"I was just thinking that Japan should be here right now," he laughed, and America rolled over and hugged him. "Was that Veneziano playing with my hair?"

"Yes, ve, why, do you want me to stop?"

"No, actually, it felt really nice."

So Veneziano kept petting him, and America kept hugging him, and they all kept laughing about what Japan would do if he came into the room.

The door opened, and they all went into loud gales of laughter, but it was Prussia, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, holding something.

"Wow. What is the awesome me missing here?" He dropped the thing he was holding, took a flying leap, and landed on the bed, nearly squashing Veneziano. "Can I play too?"

"Japan is _really_ going to be sorry," America laughed, and that sent all of them into laughter.

"Come on, what's going on here? Den, why are you in bed with these guys? Kesesese! Wish I'd known; I would have gotten here sooner. I would never pass up the chance to be in bed with Veneziano." Here, the albino rolled over and tried to hug his brother's boyfriend; Veneziano just giggled and scooted away, making room for Prussia between himself and Denmark.

"What? Man, you're so harsh," America pouted. "What about me?"

"Don't worry about them," Denmark said, finally rolling onto his side, facing America, and rejoining the living. "_I'm_ still happy to be in bed with you." He grinned at America and put his arm around him, and Prussia stopped his horsing around with Veneziano and stared at him in amazement.

"Denmark! What?"

America smirked triumphantly at him. "Never mind us," he said archly, with a bit of a laugh in his voice. "Carry on." He snuggled closer to Denmark – who made sure to keep the sheet discreetly between them – and let out a happy sigh.

But Prussia was flummoxed enough that he let go of Veneziano and sat up, cross-legged, on the bed. "Denmark, are you _naked_ under that sheet?" He poked the sheet.

All three of the others let out a snort.

"Yep. Nothing but pure skin under this sheet."

"Wow," Prussia breathed. "How can I get some of that?"

Veneziano giggled and tried to pout. "Oh, Prussia, don't ignore me!"

"Are you kidding? West would kill me if I tried anything with you. But…come here and sit on my lap." Veneziano, who was in good humor, did so, and Prussia put his arms around the smaller man.

"You guys look pretty good together," America said critically. "Good contrast of colors."

"Too bad your bloodthirsty brother has first claim," Denmark agreed.

They all sat or lay talking and joking comfortably for a little while.

The door suddenly burst open and Germany tromped back in. Veneziano jumped hastily off Prussia's lap and off the bed entirely, scurrying over to him, but the party host wasn't even paying attention.

"Prussia! Where have you _been_? Romano said you were going to help me clean up! And that you _drank all my hidden booze?_"

Whoops. Denmark pushed his face into the pillow and tried to hold back his laughter.

"I'm going to kill Romano," Prussia announced, reluctantly climbing off the bed and heading to the door.

"Why did you even come in here, anyway, dude? Just to find Denmark?"

"Oh, yeah! I forgot. Hey, Den, here." Prussia threw something at him on his way out the door. "I knew you wouldn't want to go back home in that waitress costume, so I brought that spare pair of pants you always keep in my dresser. See ya!"

Back in the bed, America and Denmark looked at each other in amazement, and then began laughing long, happy laughs.

…

_The anagram was "Pure Skin Dramas."_

_I really needed to get poor Denmark out of the damn bed. We'll see what happens next._


	71. Prussia and Romano

**Prussia/Romano.**

Several weeks after Germany's very successful party, Prussia finally found the time to head to Romano's place again.

"Are you here for tourist shit?" the brunet demanded.

"No! I'm here to fight you." He grinned evilly.

Romano recoiled. "_Fight_ me? What the fuck for? What did I do?"

"You, you nasty little Italian, you told my brother that I drank his secret stash of booze! And that I wanted to get up and help him _clean the house!_" Prussia put his head in his hands and moaned, recalling all the work that had had to be done…beer stains removed from the carpets, tons of laundry, multiple trips to the recycling center, and mopping the dried fake blood off the kitchen floor were the worst ones. "You're a little bastard, you know that?"

"Yeah, I know that, you sour albino. You can't take a little work? No wonder your stupid brother doesn't let you do anything." Romano went into his kitchen and started cleaning the countertops. Prussia, still in a snit, followed. "You can't fight me now, I'm cleaning."

"Cleaning. What an idiot."

"Shut up, potato-for-brains. Go home. I have too much work to do here to listen to you moan all day."

"Just for that I'm going to stay here and pester you all damn day," Prussia smirked. "Maybe I'll follow you around and mess up everything you clean."

"What? Why?"

"So you can learn what it's like to have to clean all day! It's _miserable!"_

"Cheh. You think I don't know that? I already do clean all day; look at my beautiful spotless home!" Romano threw the dishcloth into the sink angrily. "All I ever _do_ is clean! And listen to your bitching!"

"Bitching is for girls," Prussia countered.

"Well, if the shoe fits, bastard…"

"I don't even know why I'm friends with you."

"Me neither. Why don't we stop being friends? It would be easier then."

"Shut up."

Romano shut up and went quietly back to cleaning the rest of the kitchen. He'd baked bread this morning, and there was a fine dust of flour all over everything.

Prussia followed him around and swiped his fingers through the flour dust, writing his name or drawing little eagles.

"Will you please knock it off?" Romano moaned. "I've got to finish cleaning this kitchen! I have _plans_ today!"

"You have plans that don't include the awesome me?"

"Yes. Get out of the way."

"That's so harsh. Nobody ever wants to do anything with me anymore." He pouted.

"Don't try that puppy dog pout shit with me! Go see Denmark or somebody."

"Denmark's with America this weekend."

Romano snorted. "Wow. There's a match made in heaven."

"Actually, it was a match made in West's bed."

"_I don't even want to know!_ Get out of my house!"

"Kesesese, you sound just like West sometimes, Romano."

"Do not, do _not_ compare me to that idiot potato bastard brother of yours. Just go, or at least shut up and stop messing up my clean kitchen."

"It's not clean. It's still dirty on the floor, look." Prussia ground some flour dust into the tile floor with his foot.

"Chigi! Stop that!"

"Man, quit _moaning_. You're so touchy today."

"I'm always touchy around you. You irritate me _all the time_."

Prussia sat on a kitchen chair and sank his head onto the table. "Everybody hates me," he moaned.

"Yep."

"Why did you tell West I wanted to help clean?"

"Because he was pissing me off, and I was in a bad mood, and – and – well, it just seemed like the right thing to do at the time."

"It was a really _mean_ thing to do."

"Sour old bastard."

"Shut up."

For a while, silence reigned in the kitchen, as Romano mopped the dust off the floor and Prussia wallowed in a pool of self-misery.

"What are your plans?" Prussia eventually asked in a meek voice.

"Cheh! You think I'm going to tell you? No. I don't want you trying to tag along. Besides, you'll think it's stupid."

"Come on, just tell me. I'm so bored."

"I'm going shopping for new draperies."

To Romano's amazement, Prussia leaped out of the kitchen chair with a big smile on his face. "That's awesome! I'm terrific at shopping for draperies."

His friend just stared at him in disbelief.

"What? I'm serious, you can totally ask Arthur. We had a great time shopping for draperies before, kesesese. I helped him so well with his awesome shopping."

"Was that for those teal drapes in his kitchen? Huh, I guess you did do a good job, those are pretty nice," Romano admitted.

"Well, no…he picked those out on his own. We didn't buy anything that night we were shopping. Arthur is really a fussy old man, you know."

Romano frowned at him. "At least he doesn't _moan_ about everything all the time like you do, albino potato!"

"Oh, come on. You'd moan too if you were in my position. Not even a nation, nothing to do, nobody wants to do stuff with me…" Here Prussia gave Romano the puppy dog pout again, and Romano threw a dishcloth at him.

It missed.

"Anyway, why do you need new draperies? These look fine."

"Stupid. I need them for the guest room." He picked up the dishcloth and folded it neatly, placing it on the counter.

"Why? Got guests? Man, you never let _me_ stay in the guest room."

Romano refused to rise to that. "Go home, albino potato," he said instead. "I don't have the energy or the desire to wrestle with you and your stupid egotistical bullshit all day long."

"Now who's moaning?" Prussia asked him.

Romano sat at the table too, and they just stared off into space.

"We're a pretty sour pair," he finally admitted.

"Yeah."

"Come on. Let's go shopping for my drapes."

"Kesesese!"

…

_The anagram was "Sour Pair Moans."_

_You know they can never really stay mad at each other._


	72. Denmark and America II

_Just a little bit of date fluff. I'm surprised at how many workable (if not exactly _reasonable_)_ _anagrams I can get for them._

…

**Denmark/America.**

Denmark was wearing a lightweight red, white and blue jacket, which really made America very happy, though he was trying not to act too goofy around his date. "You really are the most fun nation I've ever dated," Denmark laughed.

"Really?" America was very happy to hear that, too – before beginning to wonder just how many nations Denmark had dated. But he didn't want to ask. For one thing, it would kill the mood, and for another thing, he was kind of afraid of the answer.

"Hey, don't sit over there, anyway. Come sit next to me." The spiky-haired blond patted the booth seat next to him.

"But why? Then I can't look at your smiling face!"

"But…we can snuggle up closer!" He waggled his eyebrows, looking remarkably Prussia-like.

"You're a snuggle whore, Denmark," America snorted, but he did switch seats.

"Can you blame me? Look at yourself; you're 100% snuggle-worthy." Denmark immediately wrapped an arm around his shoulders and began feeding him French fries. "This is a really an ace diner," he laughed, drinking his strawberry milkshake. "You have the best milkshakes ever."

"Aw." America leaned against his strong friend. "I'm glad you like them. I – I want to make you happy."

"America, you are such a total _sap_! How did I never know this before?"

"Because we never talked to each other much before?"

"Ha, well, maybe. More fool me; you're a lot of fun. Give me a kiss." They shared a tiny little strawberry-flavored peck on the lips before returning their attention to the food. "What should we do after this?"

"Beats me. Want to go to a movie?"

"No."

"Shopping?"

"_Shopping?_"

"Okay, forget shopping. Ice-skating? Paintball? Go for a walk?"

"You know, it doesn't even matter. We have such good karma together, we could go stand on a street corner and it would be fun."

"Yeah, but I don't want to do that." America pouted.

"Why not? I mean, I admit it's not the most exciting date ever, but…"

"I don't want to be out in the light where everybody can see us!"

Denmark laughed merrily and squeezed his friend's shoulders. "You're adorable. How about we go for a walk. Got any nice romantic beaches around here?"

"Oh, yes! Yes, we do. Oh, Denmark." He sighed happily and tilted his head to the side.

"Stop being so sappy in public. You're acting like a girl. Save it for when we're alone." Denmark poked him in the shoulder.

"This from the man who made me sit next to him so we could snuggle. Pfft."

"I can't help it! I keep thinking about how we got together, and it makes me want to be cuddly with you."

"Maybe we should skip the romantic walk on the beach."

"Huh. Sappy _and_ horny. At least I have pants on, today."

America turned red, which was pretty rare for him. Denmark leaned over and whispered in his ear, "You are so fucking cute."

America didn't know what to say to that, so he just fidgeted in his seat and looked away, trying to be mature and nonchalant. This attempt failed, because Denmark started laughing at him.

"Aw, don't laugh at me, dude."

"I know. It's not heroic of me, is it? But you, _you_ are the hero…I don't really have to be heroic." Denmark turned his attention back to his fries.

"That's true." America thought about this. "You're absolutely right. I'll be the hero, and you be the damsel in distress. Ha ha ha!"

"Go back and sit on the other side of the booth," Denmark grumbled.

Still laughing, America did as his friend asked. "Give me that milkshake." He swiped it.

"Drink your own milkshake!"

"I _can't,_ because you already drank it all!" America triumphantly polished off the last of Denmark's milkshake.

"Some hero you are."

"Ha ha! But…I'll heroically buy you another milkshake if you want."

"Please?" Denmark batted his eyelashes at his date, who snorted.

"What flavor?"

"Surprise me."

America thought about it and got up to place the order so Denmark wouldn't hear what flavor he'd chosen. He hoped, somewhat childishly, that it was a flavor Denmark hated.

When he came back, he was beaming. "You're going to get fat."

"Ha! Not me, my friend. This is _all muscle._" Denmark poked himself in the bicep, then in the stomach.

"I _know_."

They laughed together as they waited for the new milkshake.

When the waitress brought it, she smiled at the two nations and handed the milkshake to America, who gestured at his friend. Denmark eagerly took the glass as she walked away, put in a straw, and took a deep slurp before frowning in disbelief and pulling it away from his lips. "What the fuck is this?"

"Ha ha! Pistachio!"

"Urgh. You're a bit of a bastard, you know."

"Just a very little bit," America admitted. "But – you don't like pistachio?"

"Not at all."

"Good, I'll heroically drink it so it doesn't go to waste."

"You really are an idiot." Denmark called the waitress back and ordered another strawberry milkshake.

"But you're still going to get fat, especially if we sit around here all night enjoying our lovely karma and milkshakes. Come on, drink up, and let's go out for our romantic walk, sweetie." America gave his friend a very fake smile.

"You're going to make me sick…darling."

Both nations started laughing and finished their milkshakes, then went out to find America's nearest romantic beach.

…

_The anagram was "Ace Diner Karma."_


	73. America and United Kingdom

_I'm pretty sure I'm going to stop writing these after chapter 100. The characters I like to use are becoming too hard to anagram. Hence, "United Kingdom."_

…

**America/United Kingdom.**

"You drive me insane, wanker." England finished cleaning the espresso machine and turned to his blond guest.

"No kidding! Well, you just can't handle it, Iggy. Come on. Let's go out for a drink."

"Why would I want to drink with you? Why would I want to spend _any_ time with you?"

"Pfft. Because I'm awesome, and you know it, and I came all the way here to see you. Come on. My treat."

England reluctantly let himself be dragged off to a pub with America.

When they sat at the bar, he surprised his former colony by ordering a club soda.

"What's up with that? You really are becoming an old man. Why won't you drink?"

"I don't want to."

"_Why?_"

"I just don't, all right, git?"

America ordered a rum & Coke. "I've got some new science developments that are going to rock the world!" he announced.

"Right. Like that sodding _unbreakable_ polymer jar you sent me for my carfare money? It fell off the shelf and broke!"

America looked a little embarrassed at that. "Yeah, well, uh…well. These new developments are even better!"

"Go on, you egomaniac, tell me how great you are. I'll drink my club soda and try not to listen to you." England stared into the mirror behind the bar, hoping to see something that would distract him from America's blathering.

But no. Other than looking at a reflection of America, nothing. Gah.

Meanwhile, the taller blond had taken his suggestion to heart and was going on and on about his scientific advancements. Apparently, as far as England could tell, they were _this close_ to figuring out cold fusion. He snorted.

"Don't snort at me, Iggy. You know that I'm going to be the one to develop it first. It's just…just taking a little time."

"Don't flatter yourself, git. What else is happening?"

America thought about this and then started talking about some new Hollywood movies. England actually listened to this; he loved movies, but the way his friend was explaining it, you'd think the wanker was the only one in the world who ever made _any_ movies. He was _so self-centered!_

"Stop talking about movies. It's getting tedious."

"Well, why don't _you_ talk about something?" America was on his third drink by now and feeling a bit more garrulous than usual…which was really saying something.

"I don't have anything to talk about."

"Huh, doesn't that figure. Dude, your life is so boring. Get a grip! Have some fun."

"My life is perfectly satisfactory," England replied with a tiny grin, which America didn't see. "Except that I'm out drinking, not-drinking, with you, instead of doing something less tedious."

"You're really the harshest old…wanker…in the world," America laughed, ordering another drink.

"Yes, and you're the most egotistical. Even Gilbert isn't as full of himself as you are."

"Don't be silly. Nobody's as egomaniacal as that albino."

"Except you."

"Aw, shut up, bro! Tell me about your scientific work."

"No." Bloody hell, this was excruciating. For some reason America seemed to be irritating him even more than usual tonight. He ground his teeth.

"Tell me about your…movies."

"No!"

"Tell me about your love life?" America smiled archly at his friend, who turned red and drank his club soda to conceal how flustered that question made him.

"No," he finally managed. But…"Why don't you tell me about _your_ love life?" Ha ha, this would get him. Nobody ever wanted to date America. Well, maybe they _wanted_ to, but…nobody really dared, except Japan once in a while.

And yet…"Ha ha! My love life is great!"

England put down the empty club soda glass and stared into it. Maybe the barman had slipped vodka into his drink? "Wh-who are you dating?

"Heh heh. Wouldn't you like to know." America downed his drink and ordered another one.

The island nation was really baffled. If he, England, wasn't drunk, then…what the hell was America talking about? "You aren't talking about Japan, are you?"

"Pfft! No way! That crazy cameraman! I may never go anywhere with him again." America got a dazed happy look on his face and stared into the mirror. "No, I may never _have_ to go anywhere with him again, because I have a—" (here, he dropped his voice and looked around the room furtively) "a boyfriend of my own!"

England was confused. "You and Japan weren't dating before? Everybody thought you were."

"Nah. But…his crazy camera antics at Germany's party definitely opened the door to romance for me. In fact," he mused, looking off into the middle distance, "I should see if I can get some copies of those pictures. I want one for my cell phone wallpaper." He sighed happily.

"Tosser. What are you talking about? If you really aren't dating Japan, who the hell are you dating?"

"Ha ha. Not gonna tell you. I like having a secret from you."

"Well, then why the bloody hell did you bring it up in the first place? Honestly."

"Just to taunt you, of course!" He laughed again and ordered another drink.

"You're too bloody full of yourself."

"But I have a right to be! My life is so awesome," America sighed.

England dropped this line of conversation and went back to staring into the bar mirror, wondering how soon he could get out of here. America began to waffle on again, this time about medical advancements, and England felt himself sliding into a stupor. Bollocks, if he was going to stay here with America all night, he _needed_ a drink. Maybe more than one.

So he caved and ordered himself three drinks at once, just so he could get drunk faster. And by the time he'd finished them, spending time with America was a lot less boring.

…

_The anagram was "Egomaniac, Tedium, Drink."_


	74. Denmark and Romano II

**Denmark/Romano.**

"Bastard, what the hell are _you_ doing here?" Romano was stunned. He'd been called to a London pub to pick up his drunken boyfriend, but what the hell was Denmark doing here? It was still early, and there were bar patrons everywhere, but the management had whomped the unconscious England into a corner booth, along with whichever nation had been idiotic to try and match him drink for drink. Could it have been the albino potato? Surely _he_ could out-drink England.

But no. "I guess they got my number from America's cell phone," Denmark laughed. "Where are they?"

Romano stood in front of the bar and gaped. "They called _you_ to pick up America? Son of a bitch, how the hell did they make _that_ connection? Worked their way through all the Allies and then started on the Nordics. Dammit."

Denmark leaned on the bar, grinning at him. "Doesn't anybody ever tell you anything, pipsqueak?"

"What are you talking about?" Hell, as long as he was standing at the bar he might as well order a drink. He was going to need it, the way things were shaping up, and England wasn't going anywhere anyway. So he ordered one. And so did Denmark.

They leaned against the bar while Denmark explained his new relationship with America.

Romano continued to stare as though Denmark had gone insane. Maybe he had. "I thought you were dating the albino potato!"

"Why the hell does everybody think that?"

"Cheh, I don't know, because you guys are _always together_? Always acting insane? Because you're both so fucking annoying that you _deserve each other?"_

"Shut up," Denmark replied eloquently.

"Dammit. I actually feel sorry for Prussia."

"I said _shut up!_"

"Bastard, you're nuts! Why would you want to date America anyway?"

"Don't be mean, Romano. I've always wondered why England wants to date _you._"

"_What?_" If he hadn't been holding a top-quality Bloody Mary, Romano would have flung his drink in Denmark's smug face. "You're a complete bastard. But you already knew that."

"Takes one to know one, you dork."

"_Dork?_" Romano's face felt as red as a tomato, but he was enraged, not embarrassed. "You – you spiky-haired Nordic freak, shut up and go home." He did feel a little bit like a dork, because he couldn't come up with anything snappier to say to the Dane. Romano downed the rest of his drink and ordered another one. Maybe that would help. Denmark, unruffled, did the same.

"I'm not going anywhere until you take back what you said. What's wrong with America, anyway?"

"Yeah, you're right. Maybe I should have asked why America wants to date you!"

"Because I'm so hot?"

Romano snorted and Denmark laughed at him. They finished their drinks and ordered another pair.

"You really get on my nerves," Romano offered at this point, when they had the new drinks in hand.

"What? After all that help I gave you with your Catholic letters? Damn it. You're just a mean little ingrate."

"You didn't _help_, bastard. All you did was make it _worse_!"

Denmark changed the subject. "You're going to pass out soon, little dork."

"Cheh, and you're not? I can keep up with you."

"You're, like, half my size! I can outdrink you _any day._ Want to make a bet?"

"You're on. What are we betting?"

"Loser pays for all the drinks."

"Fine."

"Fine."

As the night wore on, the two nations' bickering escalated, as did their bar tab.

"I thought you two were here to pick up those drunks in the corner!" the barman finally said.

"Oh yeah," Romano hiccupped. "I forgot all about them. Come on, bastard, let's go sit over there and drink. At least we can keep an eye on them."

"What, like they're going to run away?" Denmark started laughing and Romano poked him.

"Shut up. Come on." They ordered two more drinks and stumbled to the corner booth, sagging into the bench seats next to their friends.

"Huh. Look how dopey America looks." The heroic nation's glasses were askew and his mouth was wide open as he rested his head on the back of the booth seat.

"At least his eyebrows are normal!"

"You idiot. It's what's inside that counts."

Once again Denmark started laughing. "See, you really are a dork. You're just jealous because my boyfriend's hotter than yours!"

"Chigi! Shut up and get us some more drinks."

Denmark obediently went and got more drinks. While he was away, Romano alternately drummed his fingers on the tabletop and tried to look objectively at his comatose friend. Nah. Denmark was an ass. England was an adorable bastard. He poked him in the cheek, but the island nation didn't stir. A pain in the ass, but adorable nonetheless.

"Here you go, meanie." Denmark plopped a drink down in front of Romano.

"Thanks, nasty bastard." They drank their drinks.

About an hour later a waitress came by and discovered they'd passed out, too. She looked at the cell phones of both America and England (which were still lying on the table from earlier) and made a call.

"Kesesese! I have to drag _all four of you_ home? I'm going to need a bigger taxi!"

…

_The anagram was "Mean Roman Dork." Sorry, Romano!_

_This is a non-Skirmish Brothers universe, yet the betting continues…as does the drinking and fighting…_


	75. Poland and Liechtenstein

_Once again, thanks to Skadiyoko, whose review reminded me that Liechtenstein would have loved Poland's costume outfit!_

…

**Poland/Liechtenstein.**

When he admitted no other interesting nations were, like, going to stumble accidentally into his bedroom, Poland finally got out of the big bed, stretched, washed up, and decided to first find Liet and then leave Germany's house. When he lightly traipsed downstairs after this, barefooted, he was dressed in a rather nondescript outfit of grey sweatpants and a dark blue sweatshirt, but his hair looked _fabulous_ and he wore a fetching 1940s shade of orange-red lipstick. He carried his leopard suit on its hanger over one shoulder; a plastic bag with his makeup and heels was hooked over the hanger. Somewhere around here were his day shoes, he knew, but…where? _Liet_ didn't know. Poland hoped Russia hadn't taken them. This made him snort, and someone nearby let out a little squeak.

"Oh! Poland, I'm so sorry. Did I frighten you?" Liechtenstein asked shyly.

"Eh, no, it's totally all right. I was just, like, wondering where my shoes are." She looked kind of nervous. "Are you, like, okay?"

"Yes!" she squeaked again. "I – I have been admiring your costume ever since I saw it yesterday." She clasped her hands together in front of her and sighed. "I do love big cats. All kinds, leopards as well as – as _cheetahs_," she swooned a bit, "and lions, too. I hope - I hope this was not actually made with real leopard fur, though?" She tilted her head to the side sweetly as she asked him this question.

Poland had always liked Swissy's little sister; she was friendly and never gave him any grief. But she rarely ever wanted to talk to him. She must totally love his costume! And who wouldn't? "Gag me with a spoon! No way. It's made of cotton and spandex, you know. But, and this is what's really, like, cool, they print the fabric in the accurate shape of a cat's pelt, and then cut it like they really were using a cat skin to make the suit."

"Wow, that's very interesting. Do they – do they make this kind of fabric for other big cats? Like – like _cheetahs?_" Her eyes grew big, and she raised her clasped hands higher, swaying slightly forward.

She must really like cheetahs! He wondered why. "Hmm, I dunno. Maybe. There's, you know, a website for it. Swissy can totally help you find it."

"May I – may I touch it?" Liechtenstein reached a trembling, pleading hand towards the feline outfit. "I don't even know what spandex feels like."

"Sure, go ahead. Might be, like, a little grody, though. Liet and I were dancing outside for a little while."

She touched the fabric with hesitation, and he continued, "Spandex is totally like rubber. They just put a little thread of it in with the cotton. It's what makes it stretch and cling to my body. I had them, like, specially cut out the hind part of the fake pelt to make the part that goes over my ass!" He started laughing, twisting to try and admire his own bottom, and Liechtenstein quickly withdrew her hand, stepping back a little.

"You said you were dancing with Lithuania?" she asked.

Poland nodded with a smile. "I totally love dancing with Liet. We practice _a lot. _He even taught me some stupid American girl's dance he learned from Hungary! I can totally do it, too, but the hip sway part is, like, really hard." He did some experimental hip sways in the hallway and frowned.

"You must be a very good dancer! To dance in such very high heels!"

"Eh, I practice my dancing, like, _all the time_ in high heels. Sometimes I even, you know, clean the house in high heels. It's awesome." Poland got a very dreamy look on his face.

Liechtenstein sighed. "Sometimes I think I need more practice in high heels. A woman should know how to wear them right."

"You should do it! I can send you a totally tubular pair if you want. I even can get leopard-print shoes! What size do you wear?"

She recoiled, just a little. "Oh, no, I – I'd better not. I mean, thank you, Poland, for your kind offer, but I should probably pick them out myself so that they're comfortable for me. And – " (here she leaned close to him conspiratorially) "I wouldn't want Switzerland to find out that other nations were sending me shoes! Especially leopard-print high heels. He doesn't even know how much I like cheetahs." She sighed again. "I'm sure he'd start to get the wrong idea." Liechtenstein leaned back and gave him another very sweet smile.

"That's, like, pretty sensible, Liechtenstein. He might, you know, shoot me! I, like, don't need that kind of hassle, especially because I didn't make him a necklace yet."

Liechtenstein looked puzzled, but didn't say anything.

"So hey, I totally have to go find my real shoes, but I'll talk to you later, okay? Okay! Send me an email if you, like, buy any clothing from the website! It'd be totally cool if we both wore leopard outfits – or cheetah outfits! - to the next party."

"Thank you again, Poland. I hope you find your real shoes soon!" She waved goodbye to him as he walked off.

…

_The anagram was, surprisingly, "Leonine Cat Hind Pelts."_

_Man, I hate writing Poland for more than about three sentences! The only one worse is, like, Sweden; you will note I have not even thought of using _him_ in these stories._


	76. England and Japan

_For Grimm2! Surprisingly, there are only 20 anagrams available for these two…and three of them have the word 'Japan' in them, which is, like, totally stupid._

…

**England/Japan.**

"Eh, Japan, old chap! How are you today? I thought you might be bored, so I brought some new tea. It's from my former Indian estates." England stepped into the foyer of Japan's home.

"England-san, welcome to my home." Japan bowed. England didn't. "You are always welcome here, of course, even if you arrive unannounced. I know the gentleman in you would not wish to cause me any distress." Japan did not feel he could be any more direct with this phrase.

"Righto. Shall we have some tea?" England smiled sweetly at his host.

Japan sighed – not loud enough for his guest to hear – and led him into the small kitchen. "I will be happy to make the tea. What brings you to my house? Simply a visit?"

"Yes, I had nothing else to do; my options were either to have a nap, or to come visit you. Since my nerves were jangling, I was too frazzled to nap, so I'm here to see you. How have you been?"

"Very busy. We are preparing for a festival this weekend and I am making all the paper flowers myself this time. Last time I relied on France, Spain and Prussia, and they were – somewhat unreliable." This was the most Japan could bring himself to say about that unfortunate incident.

England snorted. "Those wankers couldn't make a paper flower if their lives depended on it." He sat at the small table.

"I am occasionally inclined to agree with you."

"Hey! That's a nice jar you've got there. Where did you get it?"

"Which one?" Japan turned to look. Ah. "That is the unbreakable polymer jar that America-san gifted to me."

"Hah, as if he could actually make one. He gave me one. It broke."

"Seriously?" This surprised Japan enough that he stopped the tea preparations and frowned…but only slightly.

"Yes. I filled it with my carfare money. It fell off the shelf and broke."

"I am surprised. Mine was full of olives, and it has not yet broken."

"Ah, I don't want to talk about him. What's new in your house? New scientific developments?"

Japan thought about this before answering. It seemed like England-san was always asking everyone about their scientific advancements. Perhaps he was trying to worm information out of other nations? Japan opted not to answer.

"No," he said instead. "No new scientific advancements." This was implausible enough that he suspected England would pick up on it, but the Western island nation simply grinned and nodded.

"None at my house either," he offered.

Was that a smirk on England-san's face? Perhaps he was trying to beat Japan at his own inscrutable game? He'd see about _that. _"How is your moviemaking industry coming along?"

"Oh, as usual, outstanding; our movies are quite well-respected all over the world, nothing new there." His guest waved that inquiry away.

Japan was beginning to feel a bit irked. Was England-san going to sit around wasting his time all day? He poured the tea into the teapot and brought it to the table, along with all the other tea implements, as well as the cups.

"I am sorry I have no other refreshment to offer you. Today is baking day, and I have not had time to bake due to interruptions." He looked pointedly at his guest but England simply smiled at him again. Japan really did have very many things to do, and was quite anxious for his guest to leave so he could accomplish them.

But no. "That's a real shame, old chap. So, say, I've been wondering about something." He looked away in a somewhat artificial manner. "Someone mentioned you had a camera at Germany's party."

"Yes, that's true. I always carry the latest model of pocket point-and-shoot Japanese camera." He smiled a tiny little bit as he thought about all the good pictures he'd taken that night. It had only been about a month ago, but that camera was already obsolete.

"Excellent! I was wondering whether you might allow me to see them. I – I don't have enough pictures of my friends, and certainly none from that party. I would very much like to have you email me a few."

"Certainly. I have them on my computer by now. Is there anyone specific of whom you wish to have a picture?"

"Ah, no, no, no one in particular," England said in a very fake tone.

This was surprising. England-san was not known for his voyeuristic tendencies. Vaguely Japan wondered if he were trying to stalk someone. This was slightly distressing. He raised a hand to his forehead briefly, but then reasoned that he hadn't taken any _unsavory_ pictures, so he would not truly mind showing them to his guest.

"Very well. Come to my computer."

Together they walked to Japan's sleek, high-tech laptop, carrying their teacups.

"By the way, this tea is delicious," the dark-haired nation offered.

"Thanks, old chap! I like it too. Sometimes it gets me keyed up, though."

Japan worried, at that, but took care not to let it show on his face. It was uncomfortable enough that _he_ was feeling – keyed up – and if they both were, he was not certain he could continue to maintain his calm demeanor in front of his guest. He sat at the laptop and opened the file folder.

"I will scroll through all the photographs. If you see one you want to look at, please advise."

"Yes, that sounds like a good idea." England tapped his fingers on the side of his coffee cup as Japan began scrolling.

Japan felt his foot tapping with nervousness as he scrolled through the pictures folder. They had gotten about three-quarters of the way through it when England drew an audible breath. Aha, it was the picture of America-san and Denmark-san embracing in the bed. "Yes, that is a high-quality photograph," Japan had to say, even though it made his nerves jangle to praise himself. But, he reasoned, he was not really praising himself, but his subjects, who were so beautifully photogenic and amenable to having their picture taken.

He continued scrolling and tapping his foot. England continued staring at the forty or so photographs of America and Denmark. When they reached the end of the folder, England set his teacup on the table.

"That was quite informative, Japan. I don't really think there are any photographs I want after all. Thank you for the tea."

"Leaving so soon, England-san?" Japan was relieved. He was very tense by now; this had been a rather disturbing visit. "I am sorry you have to go," he lied politely.

"Thanks, but I have things to do. I appreciate your help!"

As Japan shut the door behind his unexpected guest, his head began to throb. Yes, he had a great deal of work to do today – but perhaps his jangling nerves would be better off after a little nap.

…

_The anagram was "Jangle and Nap." Told you there wasn't much to work with!_


	77. Austria and America

**Austria/America.**

Alfred was cutting long-stemmed roses in the castle garden when he heard the sound of approaching carriage wheels. He stood up to look, and ah, it was Roderich's beautiful coach, drawn by six white horses. Alfred sighed. Roderich was so elegant. He hoped Gilbert wasn't with him; that would be a huge waste of his time. These roses needed to be cut! He was having Feliciano over for an intimate dinner tonight – their first actual date type of thing – and he wanted the dining room to look perfect. In addition to the roses, he still needed to bathe and find his blue tie!

Well, if Gilbert were here, he'd just tell him to leave.

But no. Only Roderich stepped out of the coach. Alfred waved to catch his attention; Roderich straightened his jacket and walked towards the rose garden, sunlight glinting off his glasses.

"Good afternoon, Alfred."

"Hey, Roderich. What brings you by?" He laid the few pink roses he was holding into his gardening trug.

"I need to ask your help with a project."

"Sure! Whatever you need. Come over here, we can sit under the trees. I've been working in the garden for a while and it really is starting to get hot." Alfred led his guest to the bench and they sat. Roderich, of course, even _sat _elegantly, with beautiful posture. The blond admired him for that, but…_he_ certainly wasn't going to worry about posture. Alfred slouched back against the bench.

"So what's the problem?" he asked, dangling the shears from a finger.

Roderich sighed. "It's Gilbert."

Alfred snorted. "Big surprise. What did he do now?"

"Alfred, it's that tiara! He won't stop wearing it! We go hunting, we go shopping, we go to concerts…everywhere we go, he wears it! It's quite embarrassing."

The host fought not to laugh at the image this presented, the scowling Roderich right beside the – uh – twinkling Gilbert. But he could tell his guest was distressed, so he conquered his laughter. "Have you asked him to stop?"

"Of course I have. He just grins that toothy grin of his and sets it more firmly on his head."

"Did he ever get it fixed?" Alfred wondered. "Or is it still beat up?"

"It's still beat up! That's half the problem!"

At that, Alfred did laugh, just a little. "If it were fixed, would you still be so mad about it?"

Roderich gave this due consideration. "Well…probably. After all, he'd still be wearing it and preening and showing off!"

"But showing off is one of Gilbert's best things!"

Even Roderich cracked a smile at that.

"Yes. But what I want to do is figure out a way to make him stop. I thought that if you bought it back, that might work, but then I realized he might just go out and buy another one. There has to be a way to change his mind, to make the idea of a tiara unappealing to him. I just don't know how."

Alfred thought about this for a little while. "Well, I don't really want it back anyway, so that idea wouldn't have worked. All right. We need to come up with some ploy to make him think it's no good to wear it."

"Yes. I've tried pointing out just how girly it looks, but he continues to tell me that he can easily carry off a girly look."

"Hm. But you know, he's right. He can."

"I _know._" Roderich really sounded irritated. "I also pointed out that everyone at the party saw Arthur wearing it first, unbent, and that it now looks like Gilbert is reduced to wearing Arthur's cast-off trash."

"What did he say to that?" Although the phrase "Arthur's cast-off trash" disturbed him a little. Nobody had heard from Arthur _or_ Lovino since his Christmas party, and he was wondering whether he, Alfred, was also Arthur's cast-off trash. He pouted a bit while waiting for the answer.

"Shrugged, laughed that annoying 'kesesese' laugh, and told me it was an 'awesome' tiara and nobody would care where he'd gotten it."

Alfred laughed too; he could almost hear Roderich's air quotes. "All right. So it seems like we need to discredit the tiara itself. Too bad he already knows it's not diamond. That would probably be effective."

"Hmm," Roderich thought. "That might work, though. Is it cubic zirconia?"

"No, it's white topaz; I contacted the maker after the party and asked."

"He was willing to wear it even though he thought it was cubic zirconia, though. Perhaps we could tell him it was something else? Something even cheaper than that?" Roderich actually shuddered when he said the word 'cheaper.' This made Alfred chuckle a little.

"Well, in theory, yeah, but…what looks like cubic zirconia but is cheaper?"

They thought about this for a few minutes.

"I have no idea," Roderich finally admitted to his host. "I don't deal in those low-grade gems."

Alfred stood up. "I have to get back to my roses. Do you want to keep talking about this, or should we each think, and meet up later?"

"I'd like to resolve it today, if possible, or at least come up with a plan. Is there anything I can do to help with the roses?" Roderich also got off the bench.

"No, it should be fine. I just need to cut about ten more." He worried a bit, here. He didn't yet want anyone to know he and Feliciano were dating. They'd spent the last few months furthering their friendship, and there hadn't seemed to be any gossip, but Alfred didn't want the news of their date to get out. People would start pitying him for the loss of Arthur. But he hadn't really even been dating Arthur! Argh.

They walked back to the rose garden and Alfred began clipping roses violently. "You have some very sparkly rocks in the garden path," Roderich noticed. "I never paid attention to that before."

"Oh!" Alfred dropped his shears. "That's it! Those sparkles are _mica._ We can tell Gilbert that tiara is covered in mica, which is a completely cheap and plentiful kind of rock. I bet that ruse would work. If he knew it was the kind of rock embedded in my garden pathway, the kind of rock that people step on, he'd probably stop wearing it." He beamed triumphantly at his guest.

"Alfred, that's an excellent idea. I'll go home right now and put it into effect. It will make sense, since I just saw the mica in your garden." He turned to head back to his coach.

"Let me know how it goes!" Alfred called after his retreating back. "But not tonight! I've got plans!"

Roderich waved in acknowledgement and got into his carriage, which rolled sedately away.

Now, back to these roses…

…

_The anagram was "A Mica Tiara Ruse."_

_Is Gilbert going to fall for this? Or will his awesomeness carry him through?_


	78. Alfred and Feliciano

_Good anagrams this week!_

…

**Alfred/Feliciano.**

Whew.

Alfred had finished with the roses, arranged them on the dining table, bathed, and at the last minute unearthed his blue tie from under the empty tiara box. He was in a little bit of a nervous flap, but there was no time to dwell on that, because Feliciano would be here any second. He giggled, wondering whether his friend would feel the need to rhyme again all night. He hoped not. It was a cute little tactic, but it made Alfred nervous, because he couldn't compose extemporaneous poetry.

He took a moment for a mental pat on the back for thinking the word "extemporaneous."

Alfred had given all the servants the night off, except the cook, but the cook would get to leave after dinner was served. He hoped this intimate meal and time spent with Feliciano would show him the way he should proceed. He still wasn't really sure whether he wanted to offer Feliciano an alliance or not; this dinner date would at least be a step towards determining that.

He heard the crunch of wheels on gravel and stopped pacing. The big oaken double doors were wide open and he heard the smaller man's footsteps on the tiled foyer. "Ve? Alfred? Hello?"

The blond fought not to rush out and greet his guest. Instead, with a stateliness that would have made Roderich proud, he stepped forward from the shadows, hand extended. "Good evening, Feliciano," he said. Hmm. Seemed like his voice was a little lower than usual tonight. It sounded kind of sexy to his own ears. Maybe he should keep trying to talk that way? Yeah, why not. "Please come in."

"You look very nice. And the castle looks so beautiful in the setting sun. I do love it here." Feliciano took his hand and Alfred led him into the parlor, gesturing him into a seat.

"May I get you something to drink?"

"Why don't you sit down with me? Ve, one of the servants can get us a drink."

Alfred sank down onto the couch next to Feliciano. Truth to tell, the shorter man looked _delicious _tonight. Alfred wasn't certain he'd be able to keep his hands off him. Wasn't sure he wanted to try. "I gave all my servants the night off," he purred, taking Feliciano's hand.

His guest's eyes grew wide. "Alfred! That's – that's very interesting," he said, leaning subtly closer.

_Oh, yes._ Alfred was definitely going to offer an alliance. He didn't need to sit through a damned date to figure that out. But – he'd done all this date work prep, so they might as well eat the nice meal. "I'm glad you think so," he crooned again in his deeper voice, lifting Feliciano's fingers to his lips for a kiss.

"Ve~, you don't mess around, do you? I thought you were having second thoughts about spending time with me?" Feliciano's voice was soft, and he turned his hand to caress Alfred's cheek.

"I – I was," Alfred blurted in his normal voice, "but you – tonight – you look so _perfect_…" He turned his face to nuzzle his lips into his friend's palm, and spoke against his warm, soft hand. "I've been looking forward to this for a long time." He'd slid back into the seductive voice almost without realizing it.

Feliciano seemed to like that voice a great deal. "Alfred," he whispered, shifting closer on the sofa, running his hand up and through the golden-blond locks. "What are your plans for tonight?"

"They're a lot different now than they were an hour ago!" the blond blurted out again. Damn it, couldn't he focus for two sentences at a time? "Forgive me," he crooned. "I meant to say that the sight of you has distracted me from any formal plans. Why don't we just see how the evening progresses?" He gave Feliciano what he considered to be a very flirty smile.

His friend laughed his merry laugh and took Alfred's hand. "Ve, whatever you say, Alfred! What was the original plan?"

"Oh, just – just dinner, you know, and then maybe a moonlit stroll…" His voice faded away as he remembered their moonlit stroll on the party night.

"I do love moonlit strolls," Feliciano admitted. "Are you still going to offer me that drink?"

"Oh! Yes, of course, forgive me." He kissed the slender Italian fingers one more time with a grin before moving to his hidden liquor cabinet, which he opened. "What would you like?"

"Surprise me," his guest purred, and the tone of his voice sent shivers down Alfred's spine. He reached for the absinthe. Tonight was going to be a really exquisite night.

He poured two measures of absinthe into his beautiful hand-blown glasses, bringing two spoons, the water, and the sugar cubes over to the small table. "Have you ever drunk absinthe? Vash showed me how to drink it properly."

"I've never had it. I know Francis likes to drink it a lot. What is all this paraphernalia for?"

Alfred explained the method of mixing an absinthe drink. Some of the romantic mood was lost as the two friends had fun experimenting with the drink, but as they sat back, side by side, to drink it, the mood began to be recaptured.

"This is _wonderful_," Feliciano murmured. "Thank you."

"I agree. I've had it before, but somehow with you, its flavors are intensified; the drink seems stronger, and more – more intoxicating…"

The two of them put their empty glasses down and Feliciano reached out to take Alfred's hand. "I don't want to get drunk tonight, Alfred. I want to remember every moment of this exquisite evening."

Somewhat rudely, Alfred hiccupped, and then turned flaming red. "Ah – I – oh, Feliciano, I wanted everything to go so well!" he whined. "I'm such a boor."

"You're not a boor," his friend said, caressing his hair. "If you were, I wouldn't be here! I don't date boors. Now come along, stop whining, and be the alluring gentleman I know you really are. Show me – show me a good time tonight, Alfred, and – and I'll show you one, too."

Alfred smiled. "Yes. Let's do that." He stood up and took Feliciano's hand to lead him into the dining room.

…

_The anagram was "I'd Offer Alliance."_


	79. Gilbert and Alfred

**Gilbert/Alfred.**

"Hello, Alfred!" Gilbert yelled, coming into the castle. And yes. He was wearing the tiara. "Where are you?"

"Stop yelling! I'm in the kitchen, doing today's menu." Alfred came out waving a piece of paper. "Hi. What are you doing here?"

"I just needed to talk to you about something. Do you have time?"

"Sure, I suppose. Is it about the tiara? It looks good on you." Then Alfred clapped his hand over his mouth. He'd forgotten that he and Roderich were trying to get the albino to stop wearing it.

"Kesesese! I know it does, that's partially why I'm here. Come on; let's go sit in your beautiful rose garden."

Alfred gave the menu back to his cook; he and Gilbert went outside to sit on the bench.

Gilbert looked around as they walked out there. "Hmm. You sure have some sparkly rocks on the path here."

"Yes, they're mica," Alfred answered absently. "Didn't we just talk about this? I'm having déjà –" Whoops. Well, at least he had an excuse. He had a serious dose of Feliciano on the brain.

"Mica is a flat type of silicate," Gilbert pointed out.

"Uh – really?" Alfred had no idea what he was talking about.

"Mica is a flat type of silicate, that is, _rock_, that forms in thin layers, called sheets. These sheets are thinner than a fingernail."

"That's so fascinating," Alfred lied.

"The point, Alfred, the entire _point_ of my little lecture, is that there is no _possible_ way that the stones in this tiara can be made of mica. They're gemstones. Well, maybe they're glass, but they're not mica. Why did you tell Roddy such a silly lie?"

"I wasn't lying!" Alfred retorted hotly. "I really thought they _were—_" Huh. He'd better not start lying now. He shut his mouth.

"You really thought they were," Gilbert deadpanned in return. "Alfred, you're the biggest landowner in these parts, and the most powerful. You didn't get that way by being stupid about gemstones. You and Roddy are trying to make me give up my awesome tiara, and I just _won't._" He patted the tiara absently. "It looks awesome and everyone can see that, so I don't see why I should stop wearing it."

"Even though it's Arthur's cast-off trash?" Alfred didn't have a problem with this phrase, not after his delightful date with Feliciano.

"It's not. It's _your_ cast-off trash, technically. I tell everyone you gave it to me because you couldn't bear the memory of Arthur leaving you. I hope you don't mind." He took the tiara off and admired it, resolutely ignoring Alfred's splutters of indignation.

"Of course I mind! You idiot!"

"Kesesese, settle down, will you? Now listen, I didn't come over here just to lecture you about mica, or to show off my awesome tiara, even though that is a positive side feature of my visit. No. I finally found an equally awesome gift to bring to you, to show my appreciation for you. For your generosity in selling it to me."

Alfred bristled. "I don't really think you can say I _sold_ it to you, since I've yet to see any money for it…"

Gilbert flapped his hand. "That's not really important. You and I both know a hundred fifty florins are not really worth your time to bother about. So anyway, I have this gift for you, but it's still in the coach. I either need to borrow a footman or two, or you need to come help me lift it out."

"What on earth is it?" Alfred asked. His irritation was pushed aside by his love of receiving gifts. Maybe it would be something he could share with Feliciano?

"Just come and help me get it out of the coach. I borrowed Roddy's coach because it's bigger, but I only have one coachman with me and we need three men to lift it."

"Three men? Gilbert, just what are you bringing me?"

The albino stamped his foot on the mica pathway angrily. "Stop asking about it! Just come and help!" He grabbed his host by the arm and dragged him towards the courtyard, where, indeed, Roderich's coach rested, the six white horses replaced with six mismatched ones.

"What happened to the white horses?"

"Ah, Rod doesn't let me use them. I have to make do with these assorted nags."

"That's actually surprising. Doesn't he think it will redound on him if people see his coach being pulled by this ramshackle group?"

"Alfred! You said 'ramshackle'! Great word."

His host rolled his eyes as they reached the back of the coach. A large barrel – a _very_ large barrel – was strapped to the coachman's seat.

"Oi!" Gilbert hollered to his coachman, who was snoozing on the front steps of the castle. "Come help us with this thing!"

The coachman got up and slouched over. Gilbert was already hastily unbuckling the leather straps that held the barrel firmly to the side of the coach. "Hey, brace this, Alfie, so it doesn't fall off when I take off the last strap."

"Stop calling me Alfie, _Gilbo_," Alfred laughed, but Gilbert just fixed his tiara and unbuckled the last strap.

Together the three men carefully lifted the gigantic barrel down onto the gravel of the courtyard entry path. "Good grief, what are you sending me? This thing weighs a _ton!"_

"You'll like it, I'm sure. Don't worry."

After the barrel was securely placed on the path and the men were mopping their sweaty brows, Alfred offered both Gilbert and the coachman something cool to drink, but…"Sorry, Alfie, gotta go. If I don't get Roddy's coach home in another half hour, it'll turn into a pumpkin. Kesesese! See you later!" He jumped into the coach; the driver got up on the seat, and the mismatched horses rattled out of the courtyard at a furious pace.

Alfred stood watching them in disbelief. "Now what?" he realized.

…

_The anagram was "Barrelled Gift." _

_Stay tuned._


	80. South Italy and United Kingdom

**South Italy/United Kingdom.**

Arthur rolled over and woke up to discover that he and his bloody blue velvet suit were lying in the rising tide, soaking wet. "Blast." He woke up fully, staying in the water (what the hell, the suit was sopping anyway), looking around for Lovino or the dragon.

The dragon was nowhere in sight, but Lovino was still playing in the water. Arthur wondered whether the water ever got this warm in Italy. He stood up and peeled off the wet suit jacket, intending to strip and go in to swim while the warm air dried his clothing, but before he could get the shorts off, Lovino came splashing towards him.

"Hey, snoozy bastard. Feeling better?" he called. He was about thirty feet out, but still able to stand up and keep head and shoulders above water.

Arthur nodded. "Except for my suit being wrecked. Are you going to stay in the water?"

"Sure. Are you coming in?"

"Yes, as soon as I get this ruddy suit off!" He spread the jacket on top of a large rock to catch the sun and then took his soggy boots off. These he placed next to the jacket.

Now Arthur was in a little bit of a quandary. Admittedly, he felt shy about stripping out here in the sunshine, on the beach, where anyone could see him, even though the only people (or dragons) in the area were Lovino and the dragon. He didn't care whether the loon looked at him or not. Well, truth be told, he just didn't want to go parading around naked in front of Lovino. He was still a little worried about this instant – relationship – that had sprung up. Perhaps this was a provincial attitude? Arthur didn't have much experience with romance, and he'd always heard that Lovino was famous for it.

But Arthur was bold, and he knew how to act confident even when he was feeling stressed, so he tried to get the shorts off.

He tried. But he failed. Blast it, his dignity was going to hell in a handbasket.

"What are you doing out there?" Lovino called impatiently. "Come on, bastard, we don't have all day."

Arthur gave him a very funny look. "Of course we do, wanker! What the hell else are we going to do all day?"

Then he regretted saying that, because even at this distance he could see a smirk appear on Lovino's face.

"Never mind!" he yelled. "Forget I said anything!" He returned his attention to unhooking the shorts.

Bollocks. It looked like the hooks had rusted shut while he was sleeping in the surf. "Bloody hell!" He kicked the big rock in anger, forgetting he'd removed his boots. "Ow." Arthur hopped around on one foot for a second, feeling angry and really embarrassed.

Well, what the hell. What the _fuck._ He might as well go in the water with the shorts on; they were already soaked. Maybe later, he could try transforming them again. Into something without hooks. Yes. And he could probably get Lovino to help him out of them. Maybe between them they could work the rusty hooks free, at least enough for him to wriggle out of the shorts for the transformation. He knew he'd be embarrassed about that, too, but at this point his dignity was in the trash, so he shrugged and decided to deal with it later.

So he waded into the water in his frilly blue velvet shorts, to where Lovino was still standing.

"Why are you wearing the shorts?"

Arthur explained.

"That's a real shame," Lovino sympathized, but he was smirking again. "It feels very nice to be naked in this warm water."

Arthur blushed. "I'm glad you're enjoying it, git." Then he figured he might as well pay attention to Lovino, _direct_ attention, in case this did turn out to be some kind of – of real relationship eventually. So he stood in the water, quietly observing what he could see of his friend; his tan skin, his slender torso, shining in the sunlight.

Lovino had avoided getting his hair wet. Arthur had a sudden urge to push his head underwater, but didn't follow through.

"Why are you staring at me, bastard?"

"Just…curious."

Lovino raised his eyebrows. "I haven't kissed you properly yet" was his apparent non sequitur response.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Arthur recoiled. He was bloody glad he still had the shorts on!

"Well, I'm…just curious, too, you know. We don't really know each other very well, and yet, here we are on this remote island, with a dragon stalking us, and I'm naked. You might as well be; those shorts are too tight, and velvet shrinks when it gets wet."

Here, Arthur turned a very vivid shade of red. He hadn't known that. That could be painful.

"So I think we should spend some time learning more about each other," Lovino continued.

"And your first idea was kissing? Usually people start out by talking when they want to get to know each other."

"I have to admit," the brunet began, and Arthur knew, he just _knew_ what was coming next, "my first idea was not actually kissing." He raised his eyebrows with a grin.

Yep.

"But, since you can't unhook the shorts, kissing will have to do."

"You wanker. You're going to scare me away if you keep talking like that." Arthur looked down at the water.

"Don't be silly. I don't want to scare you away. Here, take my hand." Lovino held his hand out, and Arthur, somewhat reluctantly, took it. It was strong and warm. "Arthur, I have been watching you for a long time, trying to work up my nerve to talk to you. I'm not going to do anything to endanger this new friendship."

Arthur nodded. He was still looking at the water's surface.

"Will you give me a little kiss?"

The blond rolled his eyes. "If I do, will you stop with all the innuendo? At least until we get back to civilization?"

Lovino considered this. "Yes. I will. I'll let you be in charge of everything, all right? If you want a kiss, you have to kiss me. If you want me to go away, just tell me. You'll be completely in charge until we get back to civilization."

Arthur, who was feeling discomfited by this very clinical discussion, missed the implications of that statement, and agreed. He stepped closer to Lovino in the water. The brunet put his arms around Arthur's waist and drew him closer.

"Close your eyes and relax, Arthur, you look like a startled deer."

Arthur obediently closed his eyes, hoping he was doing the right thing. Well, at least he knew Lovino wasn't after him just because he was wearing a diamond tiara. He looked like sh—

Lovino's warm lips touched his own, and Arthur instinctively began kissing. He felt Lovino grin against his mouth; they stepped closer, and the kissing intensified. "Ah, Arthur…"

"You – you're a really good kisser," he blurted out, trying not to lose contact with Lovino's lips. He put his arms around his friend's neck and gave himself up to the very nice new sensation of kissing someone while standing chest-deep in warm water.

"Mm," Lovino replied softly. "You too."

In about thirty seconds Arthur broke away.

"What's wrong?" his friend asked.

"If we're going to keep kissing, I need to get out of these bloody shorts. Help me unhook them…"

…

_The anagram was "Unhooks Mutilated Dignity."_

_I'm trying to work out how all that time has passed at Alfred's place but only one night here in the Hidden Vale. When I come up with something, I'll let you know._


	81. Switzerland and Liechtenstein

_It's vacation time. I may be anagramming more than usual over the next two weeks._

_..._

**Switzerland/Liechtenstein.**

"Bruder, I'm going to make us a very nice new dinner tonight, is that all right with you?" Liechtenstein trilled.

Switzerland grunted. "Whatever you say." He was cleaning some of his guns. Several of them were disassembled, with parts soaking in gun oil, but several other loaded ones were sitting next to him just in case. "Just don't make any Polish food. I'm mad at Poland."

Liechtenstein agreed and walked off to the kitchen. She worried about that last statement. Had her big brother learned that Poland had offered her a pair of leopard-print high heels? Well, at least she'd turned down the offer. She had nothing to fear from Switzerland's wrath, but also hoped he wasn't going to take it out on Poland.

She went to the cookbook rack and pulled down two or three books that she knew had no Polish food in them. Carrying them to the table, she sat idly leafing through them for an hour or so, marking possible recipes with bits of torn-up paper. At the end of the hour, she had two choices for the appetizer, one main course that looked quite intriguing, and three possible side dishes.

She thought about this. If she went with a basic cheese fondue for the appetizer, she could focus her efforts more on the fancy main course and maybe two of the three side dishes. Yes, that would work. She could whip up cheese fondue in her sleep.

Liechtenstein put away the unneeded books and began to pull ingredients out of the refrigerator and cabinet. Humming quietly as she worked, she prepared both of the chosen side dishes first, covering them and putting them back in the refrigerator. Both were meant to be served cold, so that was all right.

But this main course…she was a bit hesitant. The photograph was lovely, and the ingredients were pretty basic – except for one spice, dried ginger, which she knew they had in the house, but had never tried before. She opened the jar and sniffed it gently. Oh! It smelled quite nice. She set the jar aside with the other ingredients.

Now the only thing Liechtenstein needed to work out was whether she could form the main course into the intricate shape depicted in the photograph. She'd never tried to change the shape of meat before. Meat was always served either flat or ground up, except for rouladen. Luckily the cookbook included a tutorial for how to fold the meat slices properly. It appeared to be similar to napkin-folding. The question was, would the meat stay in its folded shape? Or would it unfold and return to its flat, sliced state? Maybe she could pin it in place with some of those fancy deli toothpicks. Switzerland never liked to use those, deeming them frivolous, but this would be a very good time to bring them out. She would probably need their help in holding the folded, rolled meat together.

Liechtenstein mixed up the breading for the schnitzel, including a generous helping of ginger. Perhaps too generous, but she wanted to make sure the meat had a good flavor. She mixed it all carefully. Then she pulled the veal slices out of the refrigerator and began to coat them in the mixture carefully.

Eventually the schnitzel was all properly coated. She began to cook it, happily humming as she worked, and her brain returned to the idea of Poland doing housework in high heels. She giggled a little and raised herself up on her toes, pretending she was cooking in high heels. This made her giggle a little more.

When the meat was done cooking, she walked to the pantry (still on her toes) and got out the box of little fancy toothpicks. This would be the hard part.

First she washed her hands. Then, with the book's picture and tutorial as a guide, she took a cooked schnitzel and pleated it into the intricate shape shown, pinning it into formation with a toothpick. Wow! That actually looked quite nice. Liechtenstein was proud of herself.

She tried a different shape for the second one. It was twirled, like the skirt of a dancer. This made her think about Poland again, and she giggled, but then started to worry that she was thinking about Poland too much. Hmm. Better focus on the meal.

Eventually all four of the schnitzels were held into their intense folded, twirled shapes with the deli toothpicks. She placed them all on a serving plate and tripped lightly to the door to call Switzerland for dinner. "Big brother? Dinner is ready!"

Standing on her toes again, Liechtenstein placed first the schnitzel, then the side dishes, on the dining room table. Whoops! She'd forgotten about the cheese fondue. Well, maybe Switzerland would be distracted by the fancy schnitzel.

He came to the doorway. "It smells very good, Liechtenstein. It smells like schnitzel."

"It is!" she beamed.

"I thought you said it would be a new dish?" He moved to wash gun oil off his hands before sitting to eat. "What is this?" he then asked in a panic, gesturing to the toothpicked meat.

"That's the schnitzel! The book had a special method of twirling and folding it. So I thought it would be pretty to look at!" She finished setting the table for them and they sat to eat. Switzerland uncorked the wine and poured it for them both.

Liechtenstein served him the twirled schnitzel. She wanted the folded one for herself. They each served themselves from the side dishes.

Switzerland gave his little sister a very tiny smile before looking at the schnitzel again. "Am I permitted to remove the toothpick?" he asked, puzzled.

"Yes, of course. I just wanted you to see the pretty shapes. It might go flat when you take the toothpick out."

"That's all right. Meat is meat. And…you did a nice job folding it," he said abruptly.

"Thank you, Bruder!"

Both nations removed the toothpicks from their schnitzel, and indeed, the meat did flatten out to its original shape. But they cut into it. Liechtenstein took a drink of wine before beginning to eat, watching Switzerland for a reaction as he put schnitzel into his mouth and chewed.

"Argh!" He swallowed abruptly.

"What's wrong, Switzerland? Is something wrong? Does it – does it taste bad?" she asked, in a tiny, fearful voice.

"Uh – no." He took a very large gulp of wine. "It's – very intense, that's all."

She watched him eat a few more bites; his face got redder, and he kept gulping wine between bites, but he was still eating it. Liechtenstein decided it was time for her to taste the schnitzel.

"Oh!" she cried out, the ginger bringing tears to her eyes. "It's not _intense,_ Switzerland! It's _terrible!_" She too gulped down some wine, washing down the offending piece of meat. "Please stop eating this terrible schnitzel! I'll make us a cheese fondue or something else."

Switzerland took a deep breath, then another gulp of wine, and laid down his fork. "Thank you."

…

_The anagram was "A Twirled Intense Schnitzel."_


	82. America and Switzerland

**America/Switzerland.**

"Hey, Switzerland! I brought you something really cool, dude. We just made it this week and I'm sure you're going to love it. Plus I brought a cookbook for Liechtenstein. It's got some awesome southwest American cooking recipes in it. Uh, but I don't know if you'll be able to get all the ingredients, so I brought some in a jar."

"Come in, America," Switzerland said. "What is it you've brought me?" Although he would never show overt curiosity, Switzerland did love to get gifts, because if it was something useful, it could always save him money. And he did love saving money.

"I brought you a robot!" He held up a bag. He was holding a second bag; presumably that was the book for Liechtenstein and the rare American ingredients.

The Alpine nation stared at his guest. "Why do I want a robot, America?"

"This is such an awesome robot. Well, you see, first of all, absolutely _everyone_ is into robots these days. There's been a lot of talk amongst the other nations about it. I can't believe you haven't heard about it. But anyway, this amazing new American robot, which just happens to be shaped like a lizard, is very efficient at cleaning hardwood floors! Look, you just set it down, press the left eyeball, and it walks around like a real, although very large, lizard, and vacuums up anything that's on the floor." America beamed at his host.

"That's…nice."

"Nice! It's amazing! Everybody wants one, but I'm giving the prototype to you, because you like to get free stuff so much."

Switzerland turned red. Was he that famous for being a cheapskate? No! He wasn't a cheapskate. He was simply _thrifty._ "Thank you?" he hazarded.

"You're more than welcome. Now, if you want to test it, I don't mind. It's kind of noisy, but it will definitely get your floors clean."

"I do have some technical questions for you." Switzerland absently pulled a pistol out of the holster at his waist and started fiddling with it, but America hadn't even noticed. "First of all, what happens when the lizard encounters something that shouldn't be vacuumed? The edge of a rug, for example, or a lamp cord?"

"Ha, this robot is totally programmed to deal with that sort of thing. It will bump it, turn away, and move on."

"That actually could be useful. How do I empty out the dirt cup when the vacuuming is done?"

"Aw, no, Swissy! You don't have to do that."

Switzerland flinched at the hated nickname and raised his pistol again, but…still to no avail. America kept talking, unable to read the atmosphere.

"It's a _robot._ Artificial intelligence. So the lizard will find a doorway, go outside after sensing the climate and temperature – because, you know, you wouldn't want it to empty the cup all over the next room – and when it's satisfied that it's actually outside, it will open the hatch on its belly and dump all the dirt out. Then the hatch will close, the robot will retrace its steps back into the house, and begin cleaning again. It really is awesome. I have one in my house and the sight of that little lizard scuttling around all day is just so soothing, because I know I don't have to do the vacuuming."

"Very well. Thank you for the robot. Does it need charging?"

"Not even! There's a charging stand, but it will walk over to it and plug itself in, when it gets down to 10% remaining battery power."

Switzerland really couldn't think of any other reason not to accept this robot, so he thanked his guest and put the bag with the robot aside. He and his little sister could examine it later.

"You said you had a book for Liechtenstein?"

"Oh! Oh, yeah, man. Hold on. It's in this bag." America rummaged around in the second shopping bag and pulled out a book. "Hey, Liechtenstein!" he yelled.

Switzerland, who was still holding the pistol, put it back into the holster and unslung his rifle, fiddling with it in a way that was very threatening to America…who still didn't react. "Please don't shout in my house," he said, in a very menacing tone.

"Oh, sorry. Anyway, where's your sister? This book is _great!_ There are some fabulous stew recipes and things like chili."

Liechtenstein came lightly into the room. She was wearing shoes with slightly higher heels than normal, so she looked taller. Switzerland decided to wait and ask her about it later.

"Hello, America," she greeted the tall blond. "What are you shouting about?"

"I brought you a present. I brought Swissy an amazing robot and you a cookbook."

"That's actually very sexist of you," Liechtenstein muttered under her breath.

"Sorry? I didn't quite catch that," their guest said.

"I said, I always like new cookbooks."

Switzerland spun so fast to look at her that his rifle swung out of control and poked America in the stomach. "Dude, don't shoot me! Come on. Let me give the book to your sister." He handed her the book.

She took it, opening it and flicking through the pages idly. Switzerland put the rifle away, so he wouldn't accidentally harm Liechtenstein.

"This is interesting," Liechtenstein admitted. "Thank you."

"No problem at all. Oh! I forgot. There are a lot of recipes in there that call for an ingredient you won't have here. I brought you a jarful." He reached into the bag again and pulled out a jar filled with tiny, seething lizards.

"What!" Liechtenstein jumped away. She loved big cats, but hated reptiles.

Switzerland too was slightly discomfited. "America, just what are you bringing us?"

"Lizards, of course. Can't make American Lizard Stew without lizards. There are enough lizards in here to make two batches of stew."

"You expect us to _eat them_?" Switzerland asked, horrified.

"Well, not until they're cooked, duh. You can boil them right in this jar, so you don't have to worry about them getting loose in the house. The jar is – uh, well, you can just put the jar into a pan of boiling water and it will kill the lizards, and then you take them out and put them into the stew pot."

Switzerland and Liechtenstein looked at each other and then the girl dropped the book on the floor and ran out of the room rather ungracefully in her new semi-high heels.

"What's the matter with her?"

"My sister strongly dislikes reptiles." Switzerland pulled out a revolver. "I believe it's time for you to go, America. I'll test out your lizard robot, but you can take the jar of lizards with you. We will not be making American Lizard Stew, I guarantee it."

"Oh. Well, yes, I'll take the jar of lizards. It's – uh – it's an unbreakable jar," he coughed, "so it should weather the transit back to America all right." He put the jar back into the bag. "Do you think she'll be upset with the lizard robot?"

"Probably not. Since it's not too realistic to look at."

"But it is! It's like a larger-than-life actual lizard." He pulled it out of the bag and Switzerland recoiled.

"Please take it with you, America. That's just too creepy, even for me. If I got upset and shot it, I'm sure you'd be offended."

America nodded. "Yeah, that would suck. Sorry I upset Liechtenstein. I'll leave the book, though; maybe she'll be interested in reading about our native dishes."

"Thank you," his host said, escorting him off the premises. "Have a safe trip home."

As America walked away, he tripped and the bag hit the ground. From inside it came the sound of cracking polymer, and suddenly hundreds of very angry lizards began pouring out of the bag. America yelled, dropped the bag, and looked at them in horror…and when Switzerland racked his pump-action shotgun, he seemed to read the atmosphere very well, and didn't even stop running to pick up his bags.

…

_The anagram was "American Lizard Stew."_

_I realize that it's kind of cheap to use the word "American" as part of the anagram, but the idea of American Lizard Stew was too fun to ignore._

_Will he ever perfect the unbreakable polymer jar? _


	83. Switzerland and Austria

**Switzerland/Austria.**

Switzerland was at a mental impasse. On the one hand, it would be a serious waste of time and ammunition to try and locate, and shoot, all those stupid little lizards that America had accidentally set free. He snorted. On the other hand, he really didn't know what to else to do about it! There had probably been at least a hundred tiny lizards in that jar.

He walked to the bags that his fleeing guest had dropped and warily peeked inside. No lizards left. They were probably all looking for warmth and shelter inside his house!

Just then Austria arrived for a visit. "Hello, dearest," he crooned to the blond, giving him a surreptitious peck on the cheek.

"Nh," was the only response he got; Switzerland was still staring at his house, holding the bag with the broken jar.

"What on earth is wrong with you?" Austria asked, tapping his friend on the beret. "Hello?"

Switzerland briefly explained the lizard problem.

"I don't really see that this is a problem. Your climate is quite different from that of the American southwest. They'll freeze to death soon, and your troubles will be over." Austria tried to drag Switzerland into the house – genteelly, of course.

But the blond kept staring around the grounds. "I keep feeling like there's something I'm forgetting," he admitted to his friend. "Here's the bag with the broken jar; the lizards have all fled, but…Oh!" He walked on a few steps further and picked up the other bag, the one with the lizard robot in it. "I forgot. This is what was bothering me."

"What is it?" Austria took the bag and peeked into it. "Aah!" He dropped the bag.

"No, no, it's just a robot," Switzerland explained. Then they heard a strange whirring sound coming from the bag. "Maybe you accidentally turned it on?"

The two men stepped back from the bag, waiting to see what would happen. The whirring got louder before the bag tore and the lizard robot stepped out.

Austria grabbed Switzerland's arm.

Switzerland grabbed Austria's arm.

Together, they slowly backed away from the realistic, but larger-than-life-size, reptile robot. They watched it turn its head from left to right, as though seeking something. Then it immediately turned in place and scooted off very quickly across the yard.

"What on earth is it doing?"

"How should I know? I want to shoot it!"

"You can't shoot that! It's just a robot. America will kill you."

Switzerland frowned. "America is in my bad books since he released all those lizards in my yard."

"Oh, yes, I'd forgotten." They watched the robot round the corner of Switzerland's house at a very high rate of speed. "Should we follow it? See what it's doing?"

"If I'm lucky it will simply wade into the ornamental fountain and short itself out," Switzerland grumbled, but he let go of his friend, pulling his revolver out of its holster, and walked in the direction the lizard had taken. Austria followed.

Before they got to the corner of the house, the robot came scuttling back towards them, frightening both men into jumping away. Switzerland did reflexively shoot at it, but it was moving in such a herky-jerky way that his shot went wild. The lizard scurried past them and went up the steps into the house.

"What? _What?_ Come on, Austria, I have to shoot that thing before Liechtenstein sees it!"

But it was too late. As they ran into the house, they heard a high-pitched scream, the tinkle of breaking glassware, and a thump, suggesting that Liechtenstein had fallen down. They raced to the kitchen.

The girl's eyes were wide as she stared at the robot. "Switzerland –"

"Don't worry, Liechtenstein. It's just a robot; I'm going to take it out and shoot it." Switzerland gestured to his little sister. "Austria, please see to Liechtenstein while I dispose of this mechanical monstrosity."

Frozen, the others watched carefully as he reached towards the tail of the lizard robot. Before he could do anything, a whirring noise started up again. He jumped back, as did his sister.

The belly of the robot began to open up. "No, no, no!" Switzerland yelled. "Not in the house!"

"What? What's wrong?" Austria asked.

"America said it's supposed to vacuum the house, then go outside to dump the dirt! Why is it doing it in here?"

Austria laid a hand on his friend's arm. "Please calm down. We can deal with this. How do you turn it off?"

Switzerland gave the brunet a very adoring look – quite uncharacteristic for him, but he really wouldn't have thought of that for quite some time. "Press the left eyeball."

The robot was facing Liechtenstein, but she got up and ran out of the room, crunching over broken glass in her semi-high heels. Austria took a deep breath and reached to press the left eyeball before the little hatch could fully open. He pressed it – but the robot did not turn off.

"Now I'm going to have to clean the house _again_," Switzerland grumbled, watching the hatch come down, expecting a wad of dust.

"I don't mind helping you," Austria offered. "I hate to get dirty, but this is a very distressing situation."

The doorway was fully down – and about forty of America's tiny southwestern lizards spilled out of the belly of the robot, peeking around the room and then fleeing under the furniture. "Damn it!" Switzerland, completely fed up, shot the robot.

The shot zinged off its exterior and ricocheted into the corner of the room, shattering a glass vase. "Stupid America! I'm going to kill him! Is this thing unbreakable?" He unslung his rifle and shot it again. This shot rebounded and broke a window. "I _am _going to kill him!"

"You already said that!" Austria yelled, having ducked behind the couch. "Just pick it up and throw it outside! The damage is done; the lizards are on the loose. Shooting it is just going to destroy more of your house!"

These sensible words of his boyfriend's finally got through to Switzerland. "Yes. I'm going to take it outside, and then I'm going to get my anti-materiel rifle and destroy this stupid prototype lizard robot." He grabbed it by the tail. It began flailing in his hand, so much so that he almost dropped it. "Please come with me, Austria," he asked. "_Please_?"

Austria stood up and dusted himself off, trying to regain his dignity. "Of course." He straightened his jacket and walked over to where Switzerland was holding the thrashing robot. "Hurry up."

They went outside and he handed it to Austria. "Hold it while I go get my Barrett. I'm going to shoot this thing with an American sniper rifle; somehow that seems like poetic justice."

Austria stood in the yard, holding the twitching robot distastefully at arm's length while he waited.

Suddenly he felt an itch on his own back. He reached his free hand up to scratch it. "Aah!" he screamed, dropping the robot and trying to run back into the house. He almost collided with Switzerland, who was already aiming the rifle at the place where he'd left Austria and the robot.

"What? What are you doing? Where's the stupid robot?"

"I – I dropped it. I suppose it ran off. Oh, Switzerland, there are lizards down the back of my jacket! Aah! Help!"

…

_The anagram was "Lizard Unrest Awaits."_

_America can't make an unbreakable polymer jar, but his robots are indestructible._


	84. Switzerland and Romano

**Switzerland/Romano.**

"Uh, Romano? This is Switzerland calling."

"What can I do for you, bastard?"

"Well, listen. I heard you have some experience with…_robots_."

There was a silence on the Italian end of the telephone for a moment. Then: "Yeah, a little. Why are you asking?"

Switzerland explained what had happened with America, and then Austria, and the robot. Poor Austria had been so traumatized by the little lizards that he'd gone home almost immediately after dropping the robot. This was still distressing Switzerland quite a bit, but he tried to focus on the discussion. "So, you see, this robot is running amok on my property; I can't shoot it, because I can't catch it, and even though the battery should have run down by now, it hasn't. I've buried the stupid charger in the yard so even if its sensor, or whatever, tells it to recharge, it won't be able to find the charger…but I don't know what to do about it."

Another silence from Romano. "Did you ask America?"

"Are you kidding? If I get anywhere near him I may shoot _him_, since I'm so frustrated about not being able to shoot the stupid robot."

"Don't be an idiot. Give him a call. Then you won't be tempted to shoot him, but at least he might be able to help."

"So you're telling me you can't help?"

"Cheh, maybe I can help, bastard. Let me come over and we'll see what we can do." They disconnected and Switzerland went to sit disconsolately on his front steps.

Liechtenstein still hadn't come out of her room.

…

When Romano arrived he was carrying a remote control. "What's that for?" Switzerland asked him.

Here, Romano remembered that the missing jet-pack robot had crash-landed _in Switzerland_, and floundered a bit, trying to think of how to continue the discussion without giving that away. "Ah, well, this is, ah, a, uh, it's a remote control for a robot that no longer exists. Uh, well, anyway, I thought since this is from an, uh, an American robot," _dammit_, "it might also work on your lizard?"

"Don't call that stupid thing 'my lizard.' That thing is dead meat when I get ahold of it."

Romano snorted. "Dead metal, you mean, bastard."

"Yes, whatever. All right. How does this remote work?" The Barrett was set up on the steps, aiming at the front yard. "I want to make it walk into my sights so I can shoot it."

"I thought you said you'd shot it before but the bullets ricocheted?" Romano thought perhaps his host had forgotten about that.

Switzerland explained about the beefed-up firepower of the Barrett.

Romano decided that this was going to be the last time he ever came to Swissy's place. Ever.

As they tried to work out the remote control, he noticed some little lizards running around on the path. "That's surprising," he pointed out. "I didn't think your climate was right for lizards, bastard."

"Stupid lizards," Switzerland grumbled. Then he explained about the American Lizard Stew, the cookbook, and the broken jar.

Romano had continued to look at the lizards with interest while his host talked, but Switzerland had his head in his hands while he moaned about all this. "I just want them to all die. There are too many little lizards around here, and they're giving me the creeps. And Liechtenstein."

Romano laughed. "Better get used to it, bastard. Look. You're going to have an awful lot of new baby lizards around if this keeps up." He kept laughing, gesturing to the copulating lizards on the pathway.

Switzerland jumped up, pulled out a Desert Eagle, and shot the tiny lizards in a panic.

Surprisingly, Romano was not too upset by this; he was still amused by the amorous lizards. "Hey, you missed," he laughed. Switzerland emptied his clip trying to shoot the little lizards, and missed every time.

"They're just too small," he complained. "I really hate America. What a waste of ammunition."

The wanton lizards finally finished what they were doing – or perhaps they'd merely been scared away by the noise – and moved off into the grass. Several more pairs of lizards had appeared to take their place, though.

"Come on, let's figure out this remote, bastard. These lizards will die in the winter, anyway, and the robot is the more immediate problem."

Switzerland took the remote from his guest and pressed a button randomly. The robot scooted around the corner rather quickly, but didn't walk into the sniper rifle's sights. "What did you do?" Romano asked.

"I don't know. I just pushed a button."

"Push a different one."

Switzerland pushed a different button. The robot began to run around in circles.

"Give me that," Romano snapped, grabbing the remote out of Switzerland's hand. He pressed a button. The robot's belly hatch began to open.

"Oh, no, not again," Switzerland groaned.

"What? What's happening?"

"Last time it did this, a whole bunch of little lizards came running out."

This time, however, no lizards came out, just a pile of dust. "Damn it!" Switzerland shouted. He picked up the Barrett and repositioned it so the robot was directly in the line of fire.

Unfortunately, just as he shot, Romano pressed a different button on the remote and the robot ran away.

"Romano! Why did you do that? I was just about to shoot it!" Switzerland pulled out a revolver and frowned at his guest.

Romano stood up, acting leisurely, and then bolted off the premises, yelling, "Good luck with the fucking lizards, bastard!"

…

_The anagram was "More Wanton Lizards."_

_As long as I can get good lizard-based anagrams, Switzerland is going to be plagued with them. I'm trying to find a good Switzerland-Austria anagram that has both "lizard" and "tiara" in it, but so far…it's not happening._


	85. England and Switzerland

**England/Switzerland.**

The doorbell rang; Switzerland hastened to answer it. It was too much to hope it was the stupid robot ringing the bell.

"Hello, old chap. Heard you've been having some trouble with lizards, so I brought you a new device we just invented; it's a patented new humane lizard trap." England held up a bag, smiling brightly. He was dressed in a nice suit, rather than his uniform, which surprised Switzerland. Well, perhaps he had plans tonight.

"I don't even care if it's humane anymore," the alpine nation groaned, letting his guest into the house. "I'd put down poison everywhere, if it wouldn't damage my edelweiss."

"That's where the beauty of this trap comes in. It's not only humane to the lizards, but also harmless to the environment. The best lure for lizards of this type – I asked America what species they were – is linden leaves. I know you have a lot of linden trees around. Perhaps you could show me where you have the greatest concentration of lindens, and we could set up the trap there?"

"Yes." Switzerland sighed. "I have an entire garden of linden trees. Austria's musicians are out there."

"What are they doing there?"

"We thought the music might lure the lizards out. They're playing a selection of Viennese waltzes." Even Switzerland could hear how ridiculous that sounded, but he was too disheartened to care.

"Well, let's take the trap out there. Maybe if the music lures the lizards out, they'll be more inclined to go into the trap."

"We might as well try," Switzerland sighed. Together they walked outside to the linden gardens. England had kept ahold of the bag, so he set it on the ground when they got there.

The musicians were playing a dreamy waltz when they got there. No sign of lizards, robotic or otherwise.

"Let's put the trap down, anyway," England suggested. He drew it out of the bag and handed it to Switzerland.

It looked a little like a chalet. "What is this?" It was pretty big, about the size of a printer.

"Don't worry! It's a lizard chalet. I had it made that way to go with your heritage. I didn't think you'd want a pagoda or a high-rise. It might clash with your garden décor."

"Please explain how this thing works," Switzerland sighed. He set it on the ground and removed his Desert Eagle from its holster, sighting and aiming along the barrel seemingly at random, although he specifically did not aim towards the musicians. Nor yet at England. Any lizards that wandered into his sights, though, wouldn't stand a chance.

England explained. "So all we need are the linden leaves," he concluded. "About a pound."

"A _pound?_" Switzerland aimed the gun at the lizard chalet again, but didn't shoot it. "All right. Let's get picking." He holstered the gun and they got to work amassing linden leaves.

"How is Liechtenstein taking all this?" his guest asked as they picked.

"Not well. She hasn't come out of her room in a week. I have to slip meals in through the door for her every day. She's more afraid of the lizards than the robot."

"What robot?"

Switzerland sighed again and explained about the lizard robot.

"You're having a bloody difficult time of it, aren't you? Blasted America has a lot to answer for."

"You're telling me." He spared a few moments to look around for the robot, but it was, of course, nowhere in sight. Romano's remote control had stopped working, or at least, the robot hadn't responded to any of the feverish button-pressing he'd been doing, so that was useless. Switzerland had even considered digging up the charging station, just to see if it would lure the robot back. But he hadn't found time to do that yet, what with England dropping in and interrupting him with this idiotic lizard-trapping chalet.

Finally they had about a pound of linden leaves. "Take the lid off the chalet and stuff it with the linden leaves," his guest said.

They did this.

"Now replace the lid, and place it wherever you want it. I'm thinking somewhere away from the foot traffic, so you won't accidentally kick it over."

Switzerland carried the lizard chalet to a space between two lindens. The musicians carried on playing their waltzes. "Now what?" the alpine nation asked.

"Just wait for the lizards to come and enter the chalet. They can get in, but because of the door configuration, they can't get out."

"That's all?"

"Yes. Just leave it for a week, and at the end of that time, they should all have gorged themselves on the linden leaves and died."

"I hope it really is that easy."

"Don't worry! British engineering is superb!"

Switzerland had his doubts. He'd heard about the machine to make perfectly-boiled eggs. And everyone remembered the stupid Panjandrum…And anyway, wasn't this lizard chalet just a rip-off of an American product? But he wouldn't say that to his guest. Not when England had made such an effort to help. _Maybe_ it would work.

"What now?" It was getting late in the afternoon. He wondered how soon he'd need to cook dinner for his little sister.

England looked a little bashful. "I do love Viennese waltzes," he admitted.

"Do you want to stay here and listen for a little while? Then we could see if any lizards went into the chalet." Switzerland couldn't believe he'd actually said that.

"I – well – you –" His guest turned red and apparently couldn't go on.

"England, what's the matter with you?"

"I – I meant I love to _dance_ Viennese waltzes," the island nation explained, still quite red. "Will you waltz with me?" He looked down at the fallen linden leaves bashfully.

"Why not? This day can't get much weirder."

And so Switzerland and England danced Viennese waltzes together in the linden gardens until the sun went down.

…

_The anagram was "Linden Gardens Waltz."_


	86. Austria and Liechtenstein

_Let's take Liechtenstein back in time to Tiaraville and get her away from the scary lizards for a while._

…

**Austria/Liechtenstein.**

"Hello, Lili. Is Vash home?"

"No, I'm sorry, he's not. Is there something I can do to help you?"

"Well, may I come in? We can talk about it."

"Yes, please, Roderich. Come into the lounge." Lili led the way into the small but exquisitely-decorated room.

"What on earth is that?" Roderich asked, pointing to a pile of something on the floor.

"Oh. Those are the leis for the upcoming Hawaiian party."

"Hawaiian party? I didn't know anything about that!"

Oops. Lili covered her mouth, but it was too late. The damage had been done.

"What's a lei, anyway?" Roderich asked, gently touching the pile.

Well, now that she'd given it away, she might as well tell him about it. "Come and sit."

As Roderich sat on the elegant silk couch, she picked up a black lei and put it around her neck. "They are traditionally necklaces made of flowers, which hula dancers wear in Hawaii."

"Hawaii is an American place, right?"

"Yes, that's right."

"So Alfred is hosting another dance?"

"No. Feliciano is apparently hosting it."

Roderich got a very inelegant, confused look on his face, and even Lili had to frown a little. "I don't know why, so please do not ask. All I know is that Elizaveta and Toris asked me to make these leis. I need to make a lot of them."

"But these are made out of rock, not flowers?"

"Yes," she sighed. "I know. We don't have the right kind of flowers here. I had to make them out of chips of anthracite. They look authentic, except for the color, and of course they weigh a lot more than flower leis would weigh. Here! Try one on." She slipped her lei around Roderich's neck.

"You're right, it is quite heavy. I'm not familiar with this – hora dance?"

"Hula dance," the young girl corrected him.

"Yes. Well, at least I can assume Feliciano will not want to borrow my musicians. Not for such an unknown ethnic type of music."

"Elizaveta says they wear grass skirts to dance it. Apparently Alfred showed her how to do the dance."

"Do you ever get the feeling there's something going on we don't know about?" Roderich idly asked, fingering the lei.

"Often," Lili laughed. "Would you like some tea?"

"Thank you, yes."

Lili left the room to make the tea. She always enjoyed when Roderich came over, as long as he didn't bring Gilbert along. Gilbert was too loud and destructive.

When the tea was made, she brought a tray with the pot, cups, and sugar. She knew Roderich didn't take milk in his tea.

"Please allow me to serve the tea," he offered graciously. Lili nodded and pushed the small tea table closer to him. "Tell me how you make the leis," he asked, as he poured.

Lili detailed for him the entire lei-making process, from chopping up the large anthracite coals into manageable-sized chips, about the size of hibiscus petals, then drilling holes in the chips to string them on the thread. She used black thread to string them, so that it would be less obvious, and when the lei was complete, the two ends of the string were tied into a bow. "Some of them are not quite right," she admitted. "Sometimes the coal won't chip properly, or the string was too short, or something. I'm hoping they can be happy with what I've made, though. I'm running out of anthracite!"

She and Roderich drank their tea. "Do you need to make any more? I can certainly help you while we wait for Vash to come back."

"Oh! I never asked you why you needed to see him. Is it anything I can help you with?"

"Possibly. I'm still trying to get Gilbert to stop wearing that tiara."

Lili commiserated with him for a while, but could come up with no ideas. She agreed that Vash would probably be a better resource for this.

They drank all the tea and then Lili cleared the table so they could make some more leis. "I really only need to make about twenty more. Most of the coal is already chipped. We just need to drill holes, string them, and tie them. I was taking a break because my hand hurt from turning the auger."

"I'll work the auger. You can start stringing them?"

"Thank you, Roderich," she smiled.

The pair got to work on the anthracite leis. Roderich turned out to be surprisingly adept at cranking the auger, and within half an hour had drilled holes in all the chips. Lili by contrast had only managed to string enough for three new leis. These were now on the pile with the others.

"Right, now I'll start stringing," Roderich announced, somewhat needlessly, as he began to do just that.

They were down to the last two required leis. Each of them began tying the ends of their strings in a bow, happy that they had accomplished this unusual mission. Roderich threw his final lei onto the pile just as Lili finished tying hers in the bow, and she got up to put hers on the pile. They stood and admired the giant pile of anthracite leis for a moment.

"This one doesn't look quite right," Lili noticed, reaching down to pull out a string that didn't have enough chips on it.

As she pulled it away from the pile, it snagged on another lei. She tugged and pulled, and it came free of the pile, dragging a chain of leis along with it. By the time she'd pulled it free, more than half the leis in the tangled chain had come untied, and the coal chips were scattered all over the floor. She and Roderich stared at the pile in dismay.

"Oh, dear," she said in a tiny voice. "Bruder is going to kill me."

"Lili! What is going on here?" Vash thundered, walking into the room.

…

_The anagram was "Unties Anthracite Leis."_

_Yes, about halfway through this story I realized I was mixing up my universes. The hula dancing was in the modern day. But I didn't want to deal with the lizards, so…_

_And I also have to point out that I looked up non-gemstone tiaras on the internet, and found that many of them are made with Swarovski crystals…which are in fact Austrian…so I guess Roderich really _does_ deal in those low-grade gems. I'll try to be more attentive about my research in future._


	87. England and Austria II

**England/Austria.**

"Flour, lard, sugar, sultanas…" England muttered as he got out the ingredients to make scones according to his old Mumsie's recipe. Suddenly someone started banging loudly and angrily on the front door. "Stop the bloody banging, I'm on my way!" he yelled, but the person didn't stop. Perhaps the knocking had drowned out his voice.

He yanked the door open, assuming it was mannerless America, but stopped in astonishment to see Austria standing on the steps, red-faced, angry, his elegant hair disheveled, and holding a long gun over his shoulder. "_Austria?_"

Austria leveled the gun at him and poked him in the stomach with it. "Get in the house!"

This was extremely bizarre. England backed into the foyer. After his guest had entered, he closed the front door. But – "Is that your seal gun? I haven't seen that in centuries!" England put out a finger to trace the bright engraved metalwork. Maybe this would distract Austria from whatever was angering him? "Did you ever manage to shoot a seal with it?"

"Stop trying to distract me!" Austria yelled.

"Why are you yelling? You never yell. For that matter, why are you even here? You're interrupting my baking day." England dared to turn his back to his frenzied guest and led the way into the kitchen. "Come in here and tell me what your problem is, wanker."

Oops. Probably not a very good idea to call him a wanker, when he was angry and holding the (probably loaded) seal gun. But his guest didn't even react to that.

They walked into the kitchen, Austria still brandishing the gun.

"Will you put the bloody gun away and tell me what your problem is?"

Austria finally seemed to realize he'd been in an angry haze. He set the gun butt down on the floor, holding the barrel. "I heard about what you did!"

"What did I do? What the hell are you talking about?"

"You may remember that when you took the lizard – lizard _chalet_," he spat, "to Switzerland's house, my musicians were playing waltzes in the linden garden?"

"Of course I remember! Switzerland and I dan—" Oops.

"My musicians told me about that! You keep your hands off of Switzerland! Do you hear me?" Austria picked up the seal gun again and poked England in the stomach with it. "No waltzing or any other kind of dancing! Ever!"

"You've lost your mind," England muttered, turning back to his scone ingredients. He now knew Austria wouldn't really shoot him.

"I'm deadly serious, England," he hissed. "You know this seal gun is kept loaded. If you ever, _ever_ lay a finger on Switzerland again – for _any_ reason – I'm going to hunt you down and shoot you like – like –"

"Like a seal?" England snorted.

Austria poked him in the back with the gun. "Don't you have anything better to do than molesting other people's boyfriends?"

England turned back to him in amazement. "You really think I'd be interested in _Switzerland?_"

Oops. Again.

Austria pulled the trigger, but the shot went wild and hit the bag of flour, which exploded all over the kitchen.

"Damn it, Austria! Quit terrorizing my house! I know you and Switzerland are together, and I have a boyfriend, and I'm not interested in breaking you up!" He moved angrily to get a mop. "I just…I like to waltz," he then confessed in a low tone. "A lot. And – and your musicians are so skilled; their music so haunting…" He turned red and started mopping up the flour.

"Oh, England, I'm so sorry. Let me help you clean." Austria set the gun down. England wordlessly handed him the mop and then fetched a dishcloth to begin wiping off the countertops and cabinets.

They cleaned in silence for a little while. "I really am sorry," Austria said again. "Will you – will you still have enough to bake with?"

"Probably. I don't even care anymore."

"I – I'll stay and help, if you like?"

England considered this. Maybe having someone else help him would make the scones turn out better? He couldn't understand why everyone always complained about them, but maybe if he could get Austria to eat one, he might get a real opinion about what needed to be changed in the recipe. "Thank you. But – I do want to clear the air first."

"I probably understood you weren't really after Switzerland," his guest admitted. "I just – I felt very jealous, because Switzerland waltzes so well, and I don't like the idea of anyone else being – holding him." Austria blushed. "And then, all my musicians saw the two of you dancing together. It was a hot topic for a while, when they got back."

England nodded. "I'm sorry it offended you. I can see how that might have been upsetting." He checked the flour bag, and yes, there was still enough left to bake with. "But nobody ever wants to waltz with me," he said quietly, "and you and Switzerland are such experts, so graceful…"

"Didn't you just tell me you have a boyfriend? Why don't you waltz with him?"

The blond started laughing maniacally at this idea. "Ha, no bloody way, there's _no way_ that would ever happen. Might as well ask him to put on a tutu and do ballet!" He kept laughing about this while they finished cleaning the kitchen.

Finally the place was clean. "All right. Do you really want to help me bake?"

"I don't mind a bit," Austria said, rage apparently forgotten. "If it turns out well, perhaps I could take some with me for Switzerland?"

"Of course! I always love to share my scones with others." He directed Austria to mix the flour and sugar in a bowl; the dark-haired nation did so, while England opened the package of lard.

"Phew! What's that putrid smell?" Austria gagged and rushed to open the window. "That's absolutely _nauseating!_"

England hastily flung the package of lard into the trash can. "It's been a long time since I baked. I guess the lard has passed its sell-by date. Bollocks, now I really can't bake today."

"At least take that out and throw it in your garbage can. Your whole house is going to stink!"

"Good point." England bagged up his kitchen trash and took it outside to the bin sadly.

When he came back in, Austria had shouldered the seal gun again. "I'm going to go now," he announced. "I want to go see Switzerland. I was kind of angry with him, too."

The blond nodded. "Yes. I – well, thanks for trying to help, anyway."

They walked out onto the porch together and Austria set the gun down for a moment to embrace England. "Don't worry. I'm not mad anymore, and you can get some fresh ingredients for your scones."

England felt reassured and put his arms around Austria, resting his head on the shoulder of his elegant coat. They comforted each other for a moment, until –

"Bastard? Austria_?_ Why are you hugging? And is that – is that the fucking _seal gun?_"

"_Romano?_" Austria jumped, grabbed the seal gun, and ran off in the direction of Switzerland.

…

_The anagram was "Nauseating Lard." _

_Poor England. I can see this is not going to get better, at least not for a little while._


	88. Prussia and Denmark II

**Prussia/Denmark.**

"Denmark, I have to go get the groceries this week; West is making me do it, and I want to talk to you, so come over and go shopping with me."

"Sure, I don't mind. I'll be over as soon as I can. America's busy today, so…"

"What does America have to do with anything? Just get over here!"

A short time later, Denmark knocked at the door. "Ready to go for your groceries?"

"Well, yes." Prussia put his jacket on and came outside, locking the door carefully behind him. All he needed was for West to come home and find out he'd forgotten to lock the front door! He'd never hear the end of that. "But I also want to know why you keep talking about America all the time."

The two friends set off for the grocery store. "We've been dating for a little while," Denmark confessed. "I thought you knew that, after the costume party."

"_That's_ what was going on? You seduced him? Kesesese!"

"No. He seduced me!" Denmark began to splutter with laughter, and Prussia just looked at him. "What? That was pretty funny, you have to admit."

"Not funny at all. Believe me, Den, you are un-seducible."

"What are you talking about?" They reached the store and went inside. "What groceries do you have to get, anyway?"

"Let's see." Prussia pulled out the list. "Beer, of course…"

"Of course."

"…Kaiser buns, pfft, macaroni, huh, he must be having Veneziano over later, sardines, milk and cupcakes."

"That's not too bad. At least it will be easy to carry home. Come on. And tell me why I'm un-seducible."

"Are you kidding? I would have seduced you a long time ago if you were. Here, put a gallon of milk in the cart."

"Whole milk or what?"

"Yes, whole milk. That other stuff is for girls_._"

Denmark obediently put a gallon of whole milk into the cart. "What do you mean, you would have seduced me?"

"I just would have. I've been trying on and off for centuries but you never fall for it, so I figured you were un-seducible. What did America do to get you into bed?" Prussia sniggered a little at this.

"Ha. Nothing, really. He was in the bed, he looked cute and comfy, so I got in bed with him."

"Damn. You don't waste time on seducing, do you? Here, get three packs of Kaiser buns."

"Why am I doing all the work?"

"I'm pushing the cart," Prussia pointed out. "_And_ I'm feeling very neglected, since you have dumped me for America, so you need to make it up to me."

"You're insane," Denmark replied, filling the cart with the Kaiser buns. "If you're that brokenhearted, why are you being so chipper about the discussion?" He whacked Prussia in the ass with a bag of buns.

"Ow! Stop that; if West ever finds out those things hit _my_ buns I'll be in big trouble. Anyway, I have to cover up my insecurity and broken heart with a lot of chipper conversation. Kesesese."

They moved on to the next aisle. "Listen, you must just be a bad seducer, Prussia. If I had any idea you were after me, I would have jumped all over you, you're so hot. Here are the cupcakes. What kind do you need?"

"Hmm, he didn't say. Well, I like pistachio."

"Ugh, not you too."

"What are you talking about?"

"I hate pistachio, but America likes it."

"Huh. Maybe I should try seducing _him_. We could eat pistachio cupcakes in bed together. That would be awesome!"

Denmark just laughed at him. Did he sound a little nervous? Prussia hoped so. He was really _most annoyed_ that America had bagged Denmark before he had.

"Come on, pick a flavor."

"Ah, get chocolate and get some cherry. West will eat the chocolate but not the cherry, so we can have them."

"Sounds good to me. We can have cherry cupcakes and Kirschwasser tonight!"

"Good idea. We have plenty of Kirschwasser. Get a few extra packs of the cherry cupcakes. I could eat those all night."

"Maybe we should."

"What? Eat cupcakes and drink all night? Sure! Kesesese!" Ha ha, take _that, _America.

"What else is left on the list?"

"Macaroni and sardines. And beer."

"Macaroni should be in the next aisle."

They got the macaroni.

"Whoa! Check out the price on these sardines!" Prussia was astonished. This was a _really good_ price for them.

"That's a real bargain. Better stock up. Germany will be happy you saved some money."

"Wait, though. Check the sell-by date. I don't want to buy a whole bunch of skanky sardines. He'll kill me."

"How many tins do you want? I'll just check them as I put them in the cart."

"At these prices? If we can find expiration dates that are at least six months from now, then…let's get 20 tins."

_"Twenty?"_

"What can I say? My brother and I love sardines." Prussia grinned at his friend. "Though I do have to admit the only way to eat them is with a lot of beer."

"Right. We need to get the beer."

"Finish with the sardines first!"

Denmark picked out twenty sardine tins that were dated at least six months in the future and put them into the cart. "Are we going to be able to carry all this back to your place?"

"Are you saying we're weaklings? Denmark, my friend, you are so much fun." The albino wrapped his arm around his friend. "Beer, then we're done, come on."

They hastened to the beer aisle and picked out a few different six-packs to try. Denmark insisted they try one of America's beers. Prussia was peeved at that, but agreed to try it, because he was certain that his awesome German beers (or, well, West's awesome German beers) would trump it.

When they got to the cash register the clerk rang up the milk, the macaroni, the Kaiser buns, the cupcakes, and the beer. Then she looked in the cart. "Wow, that's a lot of sardines. You guys must be rich!"

"What are you talking about?" Prussia asked. "These are only twenty cents a tin!"

"Oh, no, no. These are special sardines imported from Morocco. They're hand-harvested and packed into the tins individually based on appearance. Each tin is twenty _Euros._"

"Twenty Euros _per tin?_ That's insane. I'm not spending my money on fancy hand-packed sardines."

"It's not technically _your money,_" Denmark pointed out.

"But that markup is insane! No, no sardines for me today, thanks." Prussia pushed the cart off to the side of the aisle so someone could reshelve the marked-up tins. "You need to make the sign clearer."

"I'm so sorry, sir," the clerk said, not looking very sorry at all.

...

After they'd gotten back to Germany's house, Prussia said artificially, "If you're going to stay over and have cupcakes and Kirschwasser, you might as well spend the whole night with me."

"I don't mind! You know I'll probably drink too much anyway, and your bed is nice and comfortable. Did you realize half the nations in the world thought we were dating?"

"You and me? Huh. Wish we were." He put the groceries away and got out a few bottles of Kirschwasser.

"Aw. Prussia, you're the cutest albino ex-nation that ever lived." Denmark tweaked his ear.

"I know. Come on, let's just get in bed and drink and eat together. Then we won't have to go too far when we pass out! Bring the cupcakes."

"Sounds like a plan to me."

_Kesesese…_

…

_The anagram was "Sardine Markups."_


	89. Romano and England

**Romano/England.**

"Bastard, just why the hell are you and Austria standing around hugging each other in public?" A scowling Romano punched his friend in the arm, with somewhat more force than usual.

"Ow. Shut it. Come in the house. I'm having a really bad day."

"And I'm not? I come all the way up here to surprise you, maybe take you out for an elegant luncheon somewhere, and I find you in the arms of fucking _Austria?_ And he had his seal gun, too. Dammit. What the hell's going on? You're covered in flour!"

But England was confused about something, too. "How do _you_ know about that seal gun? He keeps it in his rarities room! You never go to his place."

"That's all you know, bastard."

"What? Just how long have you been sneaking around visiting Austria?"

"That's not it at all!" Romano yelled.

"Well, then, what?"

"How did this get turned around on me? You're the one who was _hugging him on the front porch_!"

"I had my reasons," England sniffed disdainfully.

"Oh, I'm sure you did. You bastard."

"Will you shut it and get in the house? I don't want to be fighting on the porch!"

"Why not? You've been doing a lot of other stuff on the porch, apparently!"

The blond grabbed Romano and flung him through the front door.

"Stop flinging me around, dammit." He walked into the parlor and punched the wall. "Tell me what the hell is going on, or…I'll…"

"You'll what, wanker? Beat me up?" England smirked.

"I hate you."

"Yeah, you hate me so much you came all the way to London to take me out for a nice elegant luncheon. Git."

"Chigi! As if there were any elegant places to eat in this stupid country."

England's jaw dropped. "You _what_?"

"You – you heard me, bastard," Romano responded, but with somewhat of a weaker tone than he'd been using.

The blond sank down on the couch. "Maybe you should just go. I'm not really fit company right now. Austria tried to shoot me, and my kitchen was a mess, and the lard was bad…" He put his head down on his knees. "It's a very bad day already, and then you show up and start flinging vitriol at me. I don't need this."

"Austria tried to _shoot you?_ What the fuck for?"

"Because he found out I'd been waltzing with Switzer—" _Bollocks._

"You were _waltzing._ With that fucking _lizard maniac_?" Romano's voice was very angry. "Son of a bitch, you're trying to make it with every nation in Europe, aren't you? Who's next? Denmark? The _albino potato_?"

"Shut up." England was still sitting with his head resting on his knees. "I don't need your shite on top of all this."

Romano didn't answer. England could hear him tapping his foot. He knew his friend was probably standing with folded arms and pursed lips, too. He sneaked a quick peek, and…yes, he'd been right.

"What are you peeking at, bastard?"

"Just – wondering if you were still there. If you care to listen to this whole blasted saga, I'll tell you, but if you're just going to be stroppy with me, then go away."

"Dammit. Tell." He flopped down on the couch next to England.

The blond, who had in fact learned of Switzerland's lizard infestation from Romano, explained everything from the humane lizard-killing chalet up to the point where Austria had run off, including about the shooting and the bad lard. "So you can see this is not me trying to 'make it' with anybody else, and it's just a bizarre series of circumstances, and I'm angry and confused and I don't need your shite."

"Sorry. I should have trusted you not to run around on me."

"Wanker."

"Bastard."

They sat in silence. England _still_ had his head down on his knees. "If you'd ever waltz with me, this wouldn't have happened. None of it."

"I'm never going to waltz with you. Not in public, anyway."

"Selfish git."

"What about the fucking seal gun?" Romano then asked.

"What about it?"

"Why did he bring it?"

"To shoot me! Or, well, maybe just to threaten me. How do you know about that, anyway?"

"Cheh. When I was little, Spain brought me a toy harpoon, and Austria and I went on an ocean trip once. I brought my stupid harpoon and he brought the seal gun." Romano's expression grew misty. "I loved shooting that gun."

England snorted. "Did you kill any seals? Or anything else? Huh, maybe you shot Austria? That would explain why he ran off when he saw you." When Romano turned red and looked away, he started laughing. "Ah, forget it, git. Are we all right now? Are you still going to be shirty with me?"

"Ah, we're all right, I guess. Want to go out for that elegant noon meal?"

"Can't. It's already past one."

"Just as well. There really _aren't_ any grand places around here for luncheon, anyway."

"I hate you, wanker."

Then he suddenly sat up on the couch and stared wildly at Romano. "Did you say Spain brought you a toy harpoon?"

"What? Well, yeah. I don't know if it was actually a toy or not. It was kind of little, and plain. He was an idiot. He still is an idiot."

"He stole a harpoon from me once. Back in the 1600s. I wonder if it was the same one."

The two friends looked at each other in amazement before agreeing that that would have been much too weird of a coincidence.

"Come on. Let's go to Italy. We have plenty of elegant places to eat."

"I know you do, you stupid git."

They shared a fond smile and quick kiss before leaving the house.

…

_The anagram was "Grand Noon Meal."_


	90. Prussia and America II

_Took a break for a couple of days. If I'm going to end this at ch. 100, I need to find anagrams to wind up all these threads!_

…

**Prussia/America.**

Someone banged on America's front door. "Come on out, I need to talk to you!"

"Huh?" America, somewhat bleary, opened the door. "Prussia! Awesome! What are you doing here?"

"Need to talk to you, man. What happened to you? You look like you've been boozing it up a lot."

"Uh, no. I just – I've been trying to call Denmark, and he won't answer his cell phone. I was up all night trying to reach him." America was kind of peeved about this. He hadn't talked to Denmark for three days! Maybe he'd misplaced his phone? He hoped nothing was actually _wrong._

"Why do you want to talk to Denmark?"

"Didn't anybody tell you we're dating? Of course I want to talk to him!" He led the way into his kitchen, stumbling a bit. "Sorry I'm a bit dazed. I've been napping on and off, but I keep making myself wake up to try and call him. Want some coffee or something?"

"I'd take a beer, if you had one."

"Beer! Ha! It's only three in the afternoon. What the hell are you doing here anyway?"

"I was up all night too, kesesese. Denmark and I went out and drank Kirschwasser and ate cherry cupcakes most of the night. He stayed over at my place last night. Maybe that's why he wasn't answering his phone."

"You – he – he what? Did he get really drunk? Huh, I bet he did."

"Nah, Denmark can drink everybody under the table, even me. And we didn't have that much Kirschwasser around, anyway. We just hung out in bed and had fun all night. I love hanging out with him; the bed's always so warm and cozy with him in it."

America didn't react to this; he was busy puttering around making coffee. "Damn, well, no wonder I couldn't reach him. Hey, I got some new syrup made from sumac sap. Want to make pancakes and try it? Get some plates and stuff, set the table."

"Sure, I don't mind, but I'm a sucky cook, just ask Romano. What do you need me to do? Eh, last time I had pancakes, Denmark and I were in Switzerland for a long weekend. Man, that was fun."

"Here's the pan, just put it on the stove," America responded.

"Denmark and I slept together last night."

"Everybody's got to sleep somewhere," America agreed cheerfully. "Thanks for taking care of him. Now, look at this awesome pancake batter. It comes in a can, premade, so you just squirt it out like whipped cream, into the hot pan, and poof, it instantly makes a pancake! Well, not instantly, but it's a lot better than mixing up all those crappy ingredients."

"This is pretty cool, I have to admit. Maybe I'll make West buy some. Kesesese, he can awesomely make me canned pancakes every morning! Uh, and when Denmark stays over with me, he can have some too?"

"How come you never invite me to sleep over?"

"You live too far away," Prussia finally decided after a few moments of thought.

"But that's a completely cheap reason!" America turned from the stove with a giant pile of cooked pancakes on a plate. "Here, take this and put it on the table. I'll get the sumac syrup."

"What do you mean, it's a cheap reason?"

"I'd be totally willing to come to your place for a sleepover. You're so awesome to hang out with." America, with coffee in hand, sat down.

"I know I am! Well, you never invite me for a sleepover, either, you know."

"But you would never come all the way to my place."

They began eating the pancakes with sumac syrup. "Hey, this syrup is awesome! It's nice and airy, not too heavy. And anyway, obviously I'd come to your place, because I'm here_ now._ Kesesese!"

"Oh. Yeah! Well, why don't you stay over tonight? I have some very good new beer you might like, but I refuse to drink it with pancakes."

"Yes! Awesome. Fine. Tell me about this syrup and then I'll stay over and we can have good new beer."

America explained about the process of extracting sap from a sumac bush, and creating the airy syrup. Apparently it was frothed for several days at the factory before being canned.

"It's really delish," Prussia said. "I'm glad I came over!"

"Me too." They finished the pancakes and cleaned up the kitchen. "How about those beers?"

"Kesesese! Yes, bring it, America!"

A few hours later, America's doorbell rang. He ran upstairs from the rec room to answer it. "Denmark! Aw, how nice of you to come see me!" He flung himself into his boyfriend's arms with abandon, and they shared some sweet kisses for a minute. "I missed you."

"Why do you smell like sumac?"

"Prussia came over and wanted pancakes, so we tried my new sumac syrup."

"Where is he now?"

"Downstairs. Come on in. Hey – will you carry me like a bride?" He smiled sweetly to win this favor.

"What? America, how much have you been drinking?" But Denmark did pick him up that way. "I don't mind, though."

"Not drinking much. I just…I think it would look really cute, and I told you, I really missed you." He nuzzled Denmark's cheek, stroking his hair, as they walked into America's rec room.

"Deeeenmark!" Prussia wailed.

…

_The anagram was "Airier Sumac Sap."_


	91. Prussia and Switzerland II

**Prussia/Switzerland.**

"Heeeey, Swissy!" Prussia came bursting into the back yard of Switzerland's house. "Hey! How are you? What's going on? You look really morose, which is not awesome at all. Come on." He poked the Alpine nation. "Tell me what your problem is."

Switzerland sighed at this intrusion and explained about the robot lizard. Most of the actual living lizards appeared to have died off, or migrated; Liechtenstein was finally calm enough to come out of her room, but the robot lizard was still on the loose. Switzerland had indeed dug up the charging station. In the middle of the night last night, he'd heard a strange whirring noise, and by the time he'd realized it was the robot recharging itself, the newly-charged lizard robot had unplugged itself and run off. Switzerland had loosed a few shots in irritation, but had not hit the thing…and in any case he knew he needed beefed-up firepower to deal with it.

"Sounds like you need that remote that America was talking about."

"What remote? I have a remote!"

"Well, use it! Is it the one from the jet-pack – uh, uh, uh…" Prussia turned red and stammered to a halt.

"That jet-pack robot that _you_ crash-landed in Lake Constance? You idiot. I don't know where this remote is from. Romano brought it over. He was a bit cagey about it," Switzerland admitted.

"_Romano_ had it? Then that means…hmm…" Prussia slipped into serious concentration. "Well, whatever. The point is, did that remote do anything?"

"Yes, at first. It made the robot lizard appear. Then it spun in circles, and then it ran away."

"Well, awesome, just push the button that made it appear, and then shoot it! Or bag it up and give it to somebody who likes robots." Prussia waggled his eyebrows, but Switzerland ignored that. If he did ever get his hands on the thing, he was sending it back to America – _after_ dealing some serious damage.

"Fine. Let me go get the remote." He wandered into the house. At least the other nations had all been mostly trying to help. That was actually kind of unusual. He supposed he'd better savor it.

In a few moments he unearthed both Romano's remote and a few belts, going back into the back yard.

"What are the belts for?"

"I want to strap it down if we can catch it. If we can immobilize its feet, it can't run off, and then I can – uh – send it back to America."

"I'm surprised you haven't just shot it."

"I did. It's bulletproof."

"Whoa! I awesomely want that robot, Swissy! After we strap it up, let me have it?"

"No. You live too close to my house. I don't want it accidentally coming back here. I'm going to destroy it and then ship the remains back to America."

"Aw…Switzerland…_pleeeeeeeeeeeease?"_ Prussia's whining voice was very annoying. "I've been wanting a robot ever since Romano dragged me to Japan. But you know I'll never have enough money for one." He turned beaming crimson eyes on Switzerland, who flinched and pulled out a gun randomly, waving it at Prussia, who ignored it.

"Prussia. Shut up and help me with the robot. Then we'll see." He holstered the gun.

"Kesesese! Yes! All right, give me the remote."

"Have you ever used this remote?"

"No, but America told West about it. We had the manual for a while, but I've never seen the remote. Okay, here goes." Prussia pushed a button.

The lizard scooted through the distant linden garden, but did not come near the two nations where they were seated on the deck.

"Shouldn't you have your anti-materiel rifle ready?" Prussia asked innocently.

"Not if you're going to take the stupid robot with you!" Then Switzerland blew out an angry sigh and looked over towards the lindens.

"Ha ha, I knew you'd agree; Swissy, you are the best." Prussia blew him a kiss and pushed another button on the remote.

The lizard began sidling towards them, almost like a skittish cat. Switzerland picked up a belt in each hand and handed one to Prussia.

"All right, now listen, when it gets within diving distance, we dive, and each grab the legs on one side," Prussia whispered.

"Who put you in charge of this operation?"

"Everybody knows I'm the best strategist in Europe! Now stop blabbing and get ready to spring!"

Switzerland rolled his eyes. The robot sidled closer. Tension mounted in the air as it scuttled slowly through the fallen leaves, seeming to keep a wary eye on the two nations. Prussia slowly stood up, acting nonchalant, not looking at the robot, and artificially stretching, as though he had nothing better to do. Switzerland tried to do the same, placing one foot a little further forward to get a running start when Prussia's self-proclaimed "best strategy" was due to begin.

"Now!" Prussia yelled, and they dove for the robot, which unwisely sat there waiting for it. Both Switzerland and the ex-nation struggled to strap it down with the belts, but the robot put up no resistance at all. In a minute it was quite thoroughly strapped and immobile.

"Kesesese! That was fun, Switzerland. Will you seriously let me keep it?"

"Yes, yes, just keep it out of my house! My land! Take it and the stupid charging stand _and_ the stupid remote, and don't ever mention lizards, or robots, to me again!"

"Just one question. Where's the jet-pack robot? Did you dredge it up?"

"Yes, and I sent it back to America. He wants to refurbish it, test it, and then give it to Romano, which is, I guess, where it was originally supposed to go before you crashed it."

"Right. I'll talk to America, then. Thanks!" Prussia hoisted the unwise lizard robot over his shoulder, picked up the charging station, and sauntered down the drive.

Switzerland went in the house to have a very large drink.

…

_The anagram was "Straps Unwise Lizard."_


	92. Lovino and Peter

**Lovino/Peter.**

Arthur and Lovino awoke in the shade of one of the big mango trees. "I'm going to go transform this stupid suit into something else. I'll be right back."

Lovino nodded and watched Arthur crash off into the underbrush. He leisurely stretched and got up to dress in his now-battered formalwear.

After clothing himself, he wandered back out to the beach, wondering again how they were going to transform that dragon and get off the island. He wondered whether it had occurred – either to Arthur or the dragon – that if they transformed it back into a human while they were still here, they wouldn't have any way to get back to civilization. Or, well, no way that Lovino could think of. Perhaps with their magic skills there was a way. But he made up his mind to ask Arthur about this when he returned.

Off in the distance he spotted a loon – could it really be the same one? – flapping about madly again. Perhaps it was just a stupid loon that didn't know how to fly right.

Lovino found a tree with some of the fruits he'd eaten this morning, so he picked one and idly ate it while wandering through the drying sand in his formal court clothing. He wondered what had been happening at Alfred's party, and afterwards; if anyone had noticed they were gone, and what, if anything, people might be doing about it. Despite his frantic bun fight with his brother, he really didn't want Feliciano to worry. As long as the idiot understood that Arthur was _his,_ and not interested in Feliciano!

"Hey!" came a voice from behind him. Lovino jumped: it was not Arthur's voice. He very slowly turned around and saw a young boy in a purple sailor suit staring at him from a few hundred yards away.

The boy began to run towards him. Lovino briefly panicked and thought of running, before realizing how stupid it would be to run away from a little kid. He also spared some time to consider that if he ran, he might get lost and not be able to find Arthur again. So he stayed in place.

"Hey, you! Where's that idiot Arthur?" the kid asked.

"Don't call him an idiot, you little pipsqueak. Who are you?" Lovino's protective instincts were roused and he planned to defend Arthur against this snotty apparition.

"My name is Peter. I was the dragon."

Lovino started laughing hysterically at this idea, and the kid kicked him in the shin. "Ow! Dammit!" He leaped to grab the kid around the throat, but Peter ran off. Lovino chased him all over the beach, but Peter was wearing shorts and Lovino was trapped in his frock coat, trousers and boots, unable to run very effectively. Eventually he stopped running and beckoned the kid back.

"Wait a minute. If you were the dragon, did Arthur change you back?"

"No, stupid! I ate one of those weird fruits and it transformed me!" He pointed to a fruit hanging from a tree. Luckily it was not a type of fruit Lovino had eaten yet. He was not happy about the idea of possibly accidentally turning into a dragon.

"Well, that sucks," he said, and Peter kicked him again. He stuck out his foot and tripped the kid so he was lying in the sand. "Quit kicking me. How the hell are we supposed to get back to civilization if we don't have a dragon to ride on?"

"How the hell should I know?" Peter trilled, still prone on the beach. "Make a boat for us instead of mooning around over Arthur, would you?"

"Will you shut up about him? What's your problem, anyway, little purple pansy?"

"It's not _purple!_ It's _violet!_"

Lovino laughed at him again and Peter rolled onto his back. "Shut up about your stupid suit and tell me why you're so pissed at him."

"He's my cousin, and he didn't even know I was missing? It's been eight years!"

"Are you some kind of idiot, violet boy? Eight years ago you would have been a baby! How the hell was he supposed to know that?"

"He's an – an _arse,_" Peter spat.

Lovino kicked him.

"Stop kicking me."

"Stop talking about Arthur like that. I wish you were still a dragon."

"So we could fly back to civilization?"

"No, so you wouldn't be able to talk!"

"I hate you!"

"Little purple bastard. Get up and let's go find him."

"_Violet_ bastard. I mean, not bastard."

"Ha ha. You're an idiot. Come on."

Together the two of them walked back to the beach. Arthur was standing there, extremely irritated, wearing coarse blue pants and his boots, but no shirt.

"Where did you go?" he asked Lovino. "And who the hell is this?"

"What happened to your shirt?" was Lovino's response.

"Never mind." Arthur turned to the boy. "Who are you, purple kid?"

"D- _Damn_ you!" the kid yelled. "I'm your cousin, Peter Kirkland!" He tried to kick Arthur, but Lovino stuck his foot out and tripped him again. "Stop doing that!"

"Says he was the dragon," Lovino told Arthur. "Transformed himself by eating a funny fruit."

"Peter Kirkland is a baby, anyway," Arthur said dismissively. "This might be a fairy trying to work some evil magic on us."

"I'm not a baby!"

"You're whining like one, purple bastard. Shut up."

"I _meant_," Arthur said patiently, "that Peter is just a little kid! About three years old!"

"Yeah, about eight years ago, you blond idiot!" Peter managed to kick Arthur from his prone position on the beach.

"Ow. Well, bollocks. How are we going to get back to civilization without riding the dragon?" Arthur looked at Lovino.

"I was hoping you'd have some magic thing up your sleeve, bastard."

"I don't even have sleeves," Arthur moaned. "There wasn't enough fabric left in that stupid suit to make me a whole outfit, just enough for a pair of pants. All right, I can probably work some magic at least to get us back to Europe. We might have to travel overland once we get there."

"I don't even care anymore," Lovino sighed. "I just want to get away from this whiny little bastard and be alone with you somewhere that I can have a bath and eat a real meal and get clean clothes."

"Amen to that. Let me draw a circle in the sand. Don't mess me up." Arthur glared at Peter, who shrank back but stayed seated on the sand.

When the magic circle was complete, he beckoned the other two into the center. "Step over the markings – don't scuff them or we could end up in a worse predicament than we are now."

"Hard to imagine," Lovino laughed.

"Well, _I _could be a dragon, and you could be dating _him_?" Arthur burst out laughing and jerked his head towards Peter.

"I'm not going to date either of you freaks. Just get us back to the mainland." Peter stood in the circle with his arms folded.

Arthur spoke the sonorous words of a spell, and the three travelers shimmered in the tropical air and vanished.

…

_The anagram was "Prone Violet."_

_Stay tuned._


	93. America and Hungary

**America/Hungary.**

"I don't like walking in the desert," Hungary complained. Her feet hurt in their cute little mary janes, and the frying pan was kind of heavy. She eyed her companion with extreme irritation.

"Want me to carry you? I can do it, you know; it's a very heroic thing to help damsels in distress." America struck a pose.

Hungary narrowed her eyes at him. "You should have been heroic _before_ we got trapped in the desert!"

"Yes, I know," he admitted. "I'm very disappointed that we crash-landed here."

"_Disappointed? _I don't even know why I let you talk me into it. A jet-pack robot!" She snorted. "I should have listened to _Prussia_. He warned me about that thing."

"Don't listen to Prussia. He's too self-centered."

"And you're not? Oh, never mind about him. Do we have any idea where we are? Where we're going? Didn't that stupid robot have a compass you could have taken out?"

America looked a bit fidgety at that. "Well, you see…this robot has crash-landed before. It fell into Lake Constance, and Switzerland dredged it up. I took it home to repair it, but…the compass was irreparably damaged."

"And you didn't think of replacing it with a new one?"

"Uh."

"Never mind!" She whacked him on the rear end with the frying pan. Hungary was a little too tired and listless for the full-on attack.

"Ow," America said, almost equally listlessly. "If I had the robot's remote control, I could do it, but I have no idea where that thing ever got to. Probably at the bottom of the lake."

They trudged on a while.

"Remind me never to listen to a single word you ever say, ever again," she eventually moaned.

"Have you seen anything like an oasis?" he countered. "We're going to need water."

"I haven't seen anything but that stupid robot, and you, and sand. Didn't that thing have some kind of homing beacon in it? That you could turn on so someone else could find us?"

"Kind of pointless now. Since we're already a couple miles away from it. Do you _really_ want to walk back all that way just to turn on a homing beacon?"

"Idiot!" This time she whacked him in the arm. "It would be better than just randomly wandering around hoping someone will find us! Did you even tell anybody we were coming out here?"

"No…I wanted to surprise you. I know you were kind of – upset – about that hula dance video, and I wanted to make it up to you."

"Argh!" Hungary had almost forgotten about that video, but now her irritation came back full force. She and Lithuania had polished off an entire bottle of pálinka after that hellacious episode, and she'd had a major hangover after that. She hit America on the head with the pan. "I hate you!"

"Oww..." he whined. "Stop that. It's not helping."

"It's helping _me._"

Hungary looked up and saw an oasis. "Hey! America! Look – is that an oasis?"

"Oh, I hope so. Come on, let's run!" He grabbed her free hand and they ran towards the oasis, which looked like a little clear pond with palm trees around it. As they got closer, the image shimmered in the air and broke, and they stumbled to a halt. "Nuts."

"Hold on. My feet are killing me. Let me take my shoes off."

"No! No, you can't do that! Your feet will burn on the hot sand. Keep the shoes on. I'll – I'll heroically carry you, I swear."

"Fine," the girl smirked. "Carry me." Maybe this would serve as an effective punishment for the hula dance video. She put the frying pan on her head like a hat and America picked her up.

For a few miles they continued to walk, occasionally stopping so America could rest. Every now and then they'd see an oasis, which, every time, turned out to be a mirage.

"These mirages are getting weirder," Hungary admitted after a time. "That one looked like a bull grazing in a field."

"That's what I saw, too! Didn't you think the one before that looked like a girl on a bicycle?" America sounded very excited.

"It really doesn't matter," she replied. "We just need to get out of this desert, or find some water."

"I agree. Let me rest."

"Fine."

He set her down. Hungary took the pan off her head and looked at it. If only they could find some water, at least they had something to carry a little bit with them. She sighed. America was like a jinx to her. Everything associated with him always went wrong. Prussia had been hanging around a lot lately, being more obnoxious than usual, moaning something about America, too, but she'd turned a deaf ear. Prussia was always moaning about some nation or other.

She glanced up at the sky and then across the sand. "I see another mirage," she said tiredly. "But – wow. That's really pretty raunchy!"

America turned to look. "Raunchy how?"

"It looks like Prussia and Denmark frolicking naked with your robot," she laughed. "In a kind of disturbing way."

Then they looked at each other. "The robot!" America yelled.

"The homing beacon!" was Hungary's response.

The two tired travelers leapt up and ran towards the strange mirage, Hungary swinging the frying pan. At least if they hadn't found water, they'd found some kind of security. They could always sleep in the robot tonight and try again tomorrow, if the homing beacon didn't work.

They ran and ran until they reached the fallen jet-pack robot. The vision of naked Prussia and Denmark had faded…to be replaced with the real thing (although not naked). They were seated near a Land Rover, which had been hidden from view by the robot, and they were drinking what looked like clear, cool water.

Prussia brandished the remote. "Kesesese! What are you guys doing with my awesome robot?"

…

_The anagram was "A Raunchy Mirage."_


	94. America, All by Himself

**America, All by Himself.**

Alfred stood in the drive and looked at this gift barrel from Gilbert. Well…he'd need a crowbar. He was very irked with the albino for more reasons than one. But perhaps this gift would be something useful, or something fun to share with his friends. Feliciano was planning a Hawaiian-themed party next week – Alfred squirmed a bit with excitement as he thought about it – and maybe they could use this gift at the party. So far Feliciano had declined all offers of help from Alfred, although the blond knew he'd been asking others for assistance, people like Lili and Toris.

He wandered off to find a crowbar, or a footman. Strangely enough, all his servants seemed to be missing! Where were they? "Hello?" he called, but no one answered.

Well, the hell with them; he'd deal out some punishment later. Maybe take away their days off, or make them eat liver and onions for a week. He knew all his servants hated liver and onions. He'd only had to use that punishment twice so far, and it had been quite effective...for a time.

He went into the cellars to find a crowbar. He found one.

Upon coming back upstairs, all the servants were milling around as usual. Hmm. This was slightly disturbing. But he really needed to get the barrel open. What if it were something perishable? Damn Gilbert and his tiara! Why hadn't he just _said_ what it was?

Alfred was getting angry again. He stomped out to the barrel and began to pry it open. The lid had been nailed down with about fifty long iron nails, so it took him quite a bit of time.

By the time he was ready to remove the lid, he'd taken off his jacket, loosened his elegant cravat, and was pouring with perspiration and cursing Gilbert heartily. He made up his mind to demand his hundred and fifty florins from the albino to make up for this supreme annoyance. He'd use it to buy liquor and drown his sorrows about having to deal with this barrel!

Hmm. Maybe it was a barrel of booze?

No. Gilbert couldn't afford that, and he would never _give liquor away._ Not when he could drink it himself.

Instead of removing the lid right away, he went inside and had the butler make him a cool drink of iced coffee. He loved coffee and had recently introduced the iced version (black, no sugar) to the region. Some friends, like Roderich, and Feliks, and Elizaveta, had taken to the drink quite happily; others, like Arthur (here he choked a little on his drink) and Yao, had disliked it intensely. He hadn't yet tried to share any with Feliciano; he was afraid his new friend would snub it, and that would make Alfred sad.

He spared a moment to think about Arthur, growling in irritation, and wondering what the hell had happened to him. It had been _months_! Had he eloped with Lovino? In some ways that would be a most satisfactory solution. Alfred growled again, though. Lots of things were combining today to make him irritable.

He finished the drink and placed the empty glass on the sideboard before heading out to the barrel again. Surely it couldn't be something perishable. Gilbert would have said. Gilbert _should_ have said. Grr.

Alfred had forgotten to put the crowbar away. He decided to do that before opening the barrel.

As he came upstairs from the cellars, he realized he was seeking delaying tactics. This was absurd. Alfred was a heroic type of man; he didn't need to fear anything Gilbert would have stuffed into a barrel! The only thing that would really have made him upset would be finding a dead body (or even a live one) in there. He knew Gilbert wasn't unbalanced enough to have done that.

Well…he _hoped_ Gilbert wasn't unbalanced enough to have done that. You never could tell, with him.

Alfred gingerly began to lift the lid. Then he considered that he probably ought to be wearing gloves, in case it was something delicate or strange that he didn't want to touch. He shouted for a footman, but none appeared.

What the hell was going on?

He went back to his greenhouses to fetch his gardening gloves. Yes, he was delaying again. Alfred shook his head and stomped back to the barrel as he put his gloves on. Right. He was going to open the barrel. Then he was going to fire all his servants.

Very gently he lifted the lid of the barrel and set it aside before peeking in.

What the hell was this? It looked like a giant wad of dirty blond hair. Could it be some kind of animal? He reached out a gloved finger and poked it.

It didn't stir.

Alfred poked it again, applying more pressure, and felt his hand sink down about ten inches into the – the _stuff._ It met no resistance other than the springy texture of the hair. Oh. This was probably just packing material for something fragile.

He pushed the mass from side to side inside the barrel, trying to see whether it was just loose or tied up somehow. He couldn't be sure; it was hard to see inside. So he decided to lay the barrel on its side and pull out the whole thing, and then look through it to see what was inside the packing material.

He managed to heave the barrel onto its side all by himself. Just as well, since all his footmen were off skylarking! Alfred knelt down on the drive, facing the opening. Cautiously, he reached both arms deep inside until he felt the resistance of the hard wood planks on the bottom. He embraced the mass of packing material and slid it out onto the gravel of his driveway, backing away from the now-empty barrel.

Well, there was no clue _here._ It still just looked like a loose bale of blond hair, although it was tied around the middle with a piece of string. Alfred was beginning to feel a little disturbed. He looked inside the barrel again, and there was a folded note in the bottom. He pulled it out and read it.

_"Dear Alfred, please enjoy this gift of camelhair which I am sending you. It can be spun up into a fine, soft yarn, and it takes dye well. There is enough here to knit or weave several large blankets for your guest rooms. If you have any questions please let me know. Enjoy, Gilbert."_

Alfred sighed. That albino really was an idiot.

…

_The anagram was "Flimsy Camelhair Bale."_

_I have no idea what his servants are up to._


	95. France and Japan

**France/Japan.**

"Bonjour, Japan! How are you today?"

"Very well. I have just received a shipment of something from America-san and I need to open it. Would you care to join me?"

"I don't mind at all. America always sends such interesting gifts."

Japan paused delicately. "I'm not entirely certain this is intended as a gift. I believe it may be sample products for use in our factories."

"Well, let's take a look, mon ami."

The two nations proceeded to the docks, where America's shipment was sitting in four large crates. Japan picked up the shipping manifest and read it.

"It appears to be several hundred polymer jars," he said in worried tones.

"Mais non! He has not yet perfected the polymer jar! He recently sent one to England and it shattered on the floor the first time it fell."

"I do not understand that," Japan replied. "He brought me an unbreakable polymer jar several months ago, and it has been fine. We even tested it by dropping it on the floor of my kitchen." He coughed delicately. Yes, this was a tiny prevarication, but it did suit the circumstances.

"But everyone who has talked about his unbreakable polymer jars – except you – has had them break! England, Switzerland…?"

"I am not certain. In any case, we will need to test this shipment for unbreakability before accepting delivery." Japan gestured to some dock workers. "Please transport these crates to Testing Area Six." The workers immediately moved off to do his bidding.

"What is Testing Area Six?" France asked. "It sounds very serious."

Japan beckoned him back to the car. "It is a deserted area which we use for testing products that might be considered dangerous to the populace. I plan to test these there."

"How?"

"You will see, France-san. Come along."

They got in the car and drove to Testing Area Six, which was not that far away. Due to the efficiency of the dock workers, the crates had arrived before they did.

"Very well. Now I am going to have a crane hoist the crates into the air and drop them onto the ground from a height of one hundred feet. If the jars survive that fall, we may do further testing. If the jars fail, and break, at least the shards will be mostly contained inside the crates."

"Don't you think America would have packed them securely? Perhaps they will survive the fall because of the packing material."

"A very good point, France-san." Japan directed the testing area workers to remove any packing material from the crates and then close them up again.

While this was going on, the two nations moved to the office area to share some tea. "You never said what brought you to my house today," Japan pointed out politely, pouring the tea.

"Oh. I brought a shipment of pecans for you. We have been trying some new growing methods and this first harvest has turned out quite well."

Japan was astounded. "I did not know you grew pecans in France! That's wonderful!" He did love pecans. Almost as much as Switzerland loved saving money.

"It is experimental at this point. We have a few acres of pecans that we grow in special greenhouses whose climate mimics that of America's south. The trees are – well, they are not _thriving_, but they are not doing poorly, either. We have high hopes of being able to start a pecan industry in France."

"That could be very beneficial. Additional sources of national income are always good."

"Oui, c'est vrai. There are some bags of pecans at your house – I guess we missed them, because we went out through the front door but I'd had the bags delivered to the back – and I also have a small bag with me." France pulled out a brown paper lunch bag bulging with pecans and handed it to Japan, who opened it and sniffed the contents.

"Wonderful." They finished their tea and went outside.

"The jars are loose in the crates, sir," one of the dock workers said.

"Very good. May I see one?"

A worker handed Japan one of the jars. It had a fan painted on it.

"Perhaps America thinks this will appeal to the Japanese people?" The dark-haired nation was baffled.

"Eh, with him, who knows? Perhaps he simply picked a symbol that is representative of your country."

"Perhaps." Japan had an idea. He unscrewed the top of the polymer jar and emptied the bag of pecans into it.

"Hey! What are you doing?" France asked him. "What if it breaks? The pecans will be mixed in with all the plastic shards!"

"I have every confidence in America's ability to fabricate the unbreakable polymer jar. Besides, didn't you say there are more pecans at my back door? If these are too dangerous to eat, because of the shards, I will still have those to eat later."

"Yes, that is true. I just hate to think of my poor experimental pecans being wasted on this jar experiment."

"But I tell you, France-san, he has made unbreakable polymer jars before this! I have one in my kitchen."

"I'll believe it when I see it" was the blond's moaned response.

Japan put the jar with the pecans back into the crate. Some workers replaced the crate's lid and bound the four crates together with a long, thick chain. Then the crane was moved into position.

The crane swung the four joined crates out over an empty patch of land. As they watched, the operator pushed a lever which unhooked the chain from the crane; the four crates crashed to the ground with a loud thump, and the crane operator powered down his machine.

Japan and France ran to the crates, along with some workers bearing crowbars. "Did you hear them breaking?" France asked breathlessly.

"I did not," Japan stated, "although it would have been hard to hear it over the sound of the crane's motor." The workers removed the chain and began prying the lids off the crates again.

Soon all four crates were opened. Japan and France peered anxiously inside…

…and saw that every single jar, including the one with the pecans, was completely intact.

…

_The anagram was "Pecan Fan Jar."_

_Hooray for America! I knew he could do it._


	96. Denmark and Hungary

**Denmark/Hungary.**

"D-Denmark?" America croaked, throat parched, looking at him and Prussia leaning against the Land Rover.

But Denmark's eyes were on Hungary.

And Hungary's eyes were on Denmark.

"Kesesese! It's a good thing I got the remote back from Swissy, or you guys would be completely lost out here. Come on, get into the car. We can leave the robot for now. I'll come back and get it some other time."

"The important thing is to get you to safety," Denmark said in a soft voice, extending a hand to Hungary.

She smiled and took it, stepping delicately forward towards the truck.

America was still standing by the robot, looking dazed. "Thanks for finding us, I guess," he finally said, moving to sit in the Land Rover.

Denmark and Hungary were in the back seat. Prussia hopped into the driver's seat, and America rode shotgun. He twisted in the seat. "Denmark?" he asked in a tiny voice.

"Den and I were spending the day together," Prussia interrupted airily. "It's just so convenient for us to get together, since we live so close. And really, we've been friends for centuries. I love spending time with that man."

But America was still staring wistfully at his boyfriend, and his boyfriend was staring longingly at Hungary.

And Hungary was regarding Denmark with a sweet expression.

She tried to fix her hair. Denmark put out a hand. "Don't – it looks so beautiful the way it is now, so wild and dramatic."

Prussia didn't hear this. America heard it, but didn't believe it.

And Hungary smiled and took her hands away from her hair. She put her hand out and took Denmark's strong hand in hers.

Prussia drove off. "So what were you guys doing out here?"

America was still a little befuddled. He turned back to Prussia. "Uh, well, I refurbished the robot and was testing it out before sending it back to Romano."

"Kesesese! Guess that's not going to happen, now."

"Probably not. I probably can't refurbish it again." He stared out at the desert landscape rolling by. "Guess I'll have to give him a brand-new one."

"What about this one, though?"

"Oh, the sands will cover it up in a week or so. Don't try to rescue it. It's too far gone." He sighed and tried not to peek into the back seat using the wing mirror…but he failed.

Hungary and Denmark had moved a little closer to each other on the seat? America couldn't be sure. He was not happy at all with the idea of Hungary flirting with Denmark – but on the other hand, he _had_ put her through some serious stuff, and if it made her feel better – well, that was all right. He sighed again and turned around in his seat.

"Do you – do you still have your frying pan?" he asked her. She'd keep it handy, and if Denmark got too grabby, she'd hit him with it, he knew.

"Uh," she replied, gazing into Denmark's beautiful eyes.

"I love frying pans," Denmark replied.

Hungary beamed at him and shifted even closer to him on the seat. "I can make delicious pancakes in my frying pan," she crooned.

Denmark's eyes widened, but it was Prussia who responded. "Awesome! Yes. We all need to eat pancakes with America's amazing sumac syrup."

"Actually, aren't you guys kind of thirsty?" Denmark asked. He pulled two bottles of water out of a cooler and handed one to America and one to Hungary. Did his hand linger on hers? America couldn't tell, and it was driving him nuts! He drank the water.

"Thank you, Denmark. You're the most awesome boyfriend I ever had," he blurted out.

Prussia snorted.

But Denmark merely replied, "Uh-huh," and held Hungary's water bottle for her.

America was getting mighty frustrated. He turned back to watch out the window. "Do you know where you're going?" he asked Prussia.

"Of course! I do have a compass, you know. You'd have to be some kind of idiot to come out in the desert without a compass."

America groaned. Was that the sound of the frying pan moving through the air, behind him? He whipped his head around, ducking, but Hungary was now leaning up against Denmark and holding his hand in her lap; he had his arm around her. She was gazing at him with a very surprised look. America pouted and turned to face front again.

"Why do you look so surprised?" he heard Denmark ask her in a low tone.

"I – never realized how much of a hunk you are," she admitted, laughing. America turned around in time to see Denmark raise her hand and kiss it. He turned back and punched the dashboard.

"What are you doing to my Land Rover?" Prussia asked. "I mean, West's Land Rover? If you damage this thing, I'm dead."

"Aren't you paying attention to _anything_?" America finally demanded. "I think you and I are _both_ going to lose Denmark in another minute."

Prussia slammed on the brakes. "What are you talking about?"

"Ow," from the back seat, and then the frying pan came sailing over the seat and clocked Prussia in the head.

"Ow! Stop that!" he yelled.

America and Prussia turned to look into the back seat. Denmark had fallen on the floor, and Hungary had landed on top of him. America covered his face. "I don't even want to know." But then he peeked through his fingers.

Denmark was stroking Hungary's hair and smiling at her, and she was tickling her fingers along his jawline.

"Den!" Prussia punched the headrest. "What are you doing?"

"Carry on," Denmark said absently, grinning, and wrapping his arms around Hungary.

"I should have stayed with the robot," America groaned.

Prussia turned back to the steering wheel and punched it. "How unawesome. Come on, let's get out of here." He started the vehicle again and they drove off.

America finally turned back, extremely dejected.

Prussia looked thoughtful. After another few miles he leaned over and touched America's hand. "Would you go out with me sometime?"

…

_The anagram was "Regard Hunky Man."_


	97. Prussia and Poland

**Prussia/Poland.**

"Po-o-o-oland!" Prussia called out, coming into the room. "Where are you?"

"In my room," came a distant shout. "Come up!"

Prussia made his way upstairs to Poland's room, to find the blond posing in front of the mirror. He was wearing a striking plum dress, very form-fitting, with surprisingly low-heeled silver sandals.

"Wow! You look awesome! Awesomely beautiful." Prussia sneaked up behind him and slid his arms around Poland's waist. Poland tittered.

"I totally know," he said, simpering, and relaxing back into Prussia's arms. "What, like, brings you to see me?"

"Kesesese! Nothing, really. It's a beautiful sunny day and I wanted to see you. That's all."

"It is a beautiful day," Poland agreed. "Should we, like, go out and walk around the gardens? I have a totally tubular new parasol to carry."

"A _parasol_? Wow. Yes, let's go have an awesome walk around the gardens. Bring your beautiful new parasol and I'll be delighted to walk with you." Prussia swept into a courtly bow and Poland tittered again, hiding his smile with his hand.

"Just wait, then, the parasol is downstairs."

The two of them hastened down the steps (an easy feat for Poland in his low-heeled shoes) and he grabbed the parasol from the pink umbrella stand inside the front door. "Are we, you know, ready?"

"Do you need gloves or something? To protect your delicate hands?"

"I'll be totally fine! Come on, let's go outside. Nobody else is around today, and I was getting really bored." Poland pouted and took Prussia's arm. Together they wandered outside and headed towards the gardens.

"It really is a most awesome day," Prussia pointed out. "It's always better to be walking along with a beautiful nation on my arm! Kesesese!"

"I agree," Poland purred. "I haven't seen you in, like, so long! What have you been doing lately, anyway?"

Prussia took some time to explain about his recent robot obsession and the drama America and Hungary had suffered in the desert. Then he started to get a little angry about Denmark…and about America. America had not agreed to go out with him yet, and it was _infuriating._ But – that was absolutely _not_ why he'd chosen to come see Poland today. Absolutely _not._

"The sun is getting lower," he said. "Maybe you should hold the parasol lower. You don't want to get sunburned."

"Gag me with a spoon! Sunburn is totally grody. And Liet hates it when my skin is brown." Poland pouted again, but dipped the parasol a little lower. "Thanks for the suggestion, Prussia."

"No problem!"

They walked on for a little while and then Prussia started telling Poland about the lizard robot. He assumed that everyone would want one of these – they were super awesome! – but other than America, nobody seemed to be really impressed with it.

Poland wasn't interested either. "Eh, I totally don't need any, like, robots." He smiled at Prussia. "What I need is a bigger shoe closet!"

"Hey, you're tipping the parasol again! Sun is getting on your face. Dip it down again."

Poland hastily complied, not wanting to spoil his delicate complexion.

"Don't _you_ need to worry about, you know, sun damage?" he asked the albino. "I, like, never thought about that before."

"Don't worry about me. West has some awesome sunscreen that's 500+ SPF. It's mil-spec for desert work. Completely awesome! I can put it on on Monday and not have to reapply until Tuesday afternoon!" Prussia beamed.

"But that's just grody! Don't you wash your face at night?"

"Of course I do, I'm just saying. I _could_ if I had to."

"Oh, I see, I totally see."

They walked on a little further. As they rounded the corner on the path, Poland dipped the parasol to block the sun, since it was shining on him from a new direction. Prussia patted the blond's arm absently.

"Shall we, like, sit on a bench?" Poland used the parasol to point to a bench in the shade.

"Yes, that would be awesome. You can tell me about what's going on with you. Why are you wearing low-heeled shoes? That's not like you at all."

"I'm totally experimenting. This is a special week. Liechtenstein and I are doing a shoe exchange. She's wearing high heels all week and I'm, you know, wearing low heels. To get a feel for how the other half lives." Poland stuck out a foot and waggled it. "What do you think? Do they, like, look all right?"

"They're pretty cool," Prussia admitted, "although not as cool as the sandals I designed for Swissy's competition."

"Those were pretty to the max!" Poland agreed. "Mine were good, too, though."

"Oh, I know. I was completely surprised that I won and you didn't." Prussia squeezed Poland's arm affectionately.

Poland set the parasol down, since they were seated in the shade. The two of them fake-flirted with each other for about half an hour, Prussia paying extravagant compliments to Poland, and Poland responding with girlish glee.

Neither of them noticed that the sun had begun to dip below the level of the trees, painting them in a golden glow.

Half an hour later Lithuania came running out frantically to the bench. "Poland! Poland! What are you doing? The sun is on your skin! You're going to get sunburned! Hold up the parasol!"

Poland's eyes widened and he raised the parasol to block the sun. "Oh, I totally forgot to dip it lower when the sun started sinking! That's totally bad news! I'm going back in the house. Prussia, are you coming? I, like, have to put some buttermilk on my skin before it gets all grody and brown."

"I think I'll just get going, Poland. Nice to see you. You too, Lithuania." Prussia trudged off dejectedly towards the setting sun.

…

_The anagram was "Dip Sun Parasol."_


	98. Roderich and Vash

_Well, the anagram was an evocative one, so I let myself get carried away again. _

_.._

**Roderich/Vash.**

"Hello, Vash. Lili and I were just working on the leis for the Hawaiian party. I'm afraid I made a bit of a mess."

Lili looked at Roderich at first in surprise, and then with gratitude, for taking the blame here. She knew that Vash would not be too angry with Roderich. He still cared for him, even though they'd been divorced more than a year ago. It had been fairly acrimonious, making headlines, and while Vash would never speak of it to Lili, she knew he'd been heartbroken to lose Roderich. It had been even worse for him when his ex-husband had started to date Gilbert, of all people. _Gilbert!_ Lili actually shuddered, thinking of this, and then forced herself to turn her mind back to the leis.

"I - it's all right," Vash replied, setting his musket aside. "What exactly happened here?"

"Some of the lei strings came untied and the chips fell off the strings," Lili admitted, "but it really shouldn't take too long to fix it." She knelt down to begin sweeping the loose chips into a pile; Roderich joined her.

"Do – do you need me to help?" Vash was red-faced and not looking at Roderich.

"That would be quite useful," Lili said. So Vash joined them, still not looking at Roderich, and began to help collect anthracite chips. "Where were you today, anyway, Bruder? I looked for you at lunchtime. I made schnitzel. There are some leftovers if you are hungry."

"I – I was helping Feliciano with some things for the party. I ate lunch over there. He was showing me the native costumes and I was helping him decorate. He's got something up his sleeve, but I don't know what."

"I was telling Lili that I'm not very familiar with Hawaii," Roderich said quietly, also slightly red. "Did you learn anything about it while you were there?" He looked away from the pile of anthracite chips and began to cut some new strings to make new leis.

"I – I didn't learn much. There's a dance – a – a dance they do," Vash blushed, "but it's a girl's dance. They wear the leis and do the dance to welcome newcomers."

"I wonder if there will be dancing at the party. Real dancing, I mean. Waltzes – " Roderich turned red and stopped speaking.

Lili stood up. "I'll just organize some tea," she decided, taking the tray and empty cups from the tea she and Roderich had shared, heading to the kitchen.

When she'd left the room Roderich cleared his throat. "Vash, I—you –"

Vash didn't respond, but looked sternly at the pile of leis, clenching one in his hand.

Roderich couldn't go on.

The two of them knelt on the floor, too choked with emotion to speak.

"Vash. I – I miss you." Roderich didn't look up. "A great deal."

Vash fiddled with his lei. Then he said, "But you've been dating – dating _Gilbert._"

"Dating Gilbert, but always – always thinking of _you_, always wanting you. I – I made a very harsh mistake. I should never have left you. It broke my heart, and I've been too weak to come back and admit it." Roderich finally looked up at his friend, his true love.

"I don't know what to say," Vash finally said.

"Would you – would you consider dating me again? Starting fresh?" He reached out his hand to gently touch Vash's where it rested on a lei.

"Roderich, you know I – I never stopped loving you," he confessed, very quietly. "Yes, I would start fresh again. But we would have to work hard at things together…not let it deteriorate like it did before." He turned his hand over and slipped it into Roderich's strong, warm hand. But he still couldn't look up.

They knelt on the floor for a few minutes. Roderich began to stroke Vash's cool hand in his. "At least let's get up and sit on the sofa," he eventually suggested.

Vash got up, but he _still_ didn't look at Roderich. "May I – may I sit on your lap?" he asked, in a very quiet tone. A _very_ quiet tone.

"Of course." Roderich sat and drew his lover onto his lap, lightly rubbing his back to calm him. Vash began to smile slightly.

"I – I hope Lili leaves us alone for a little while," he stammered.

"Lili is a girl of uncommon good sense. I think she will." Roderich lifted Vash's hand to his lips and kissed it.

Vash finally looked into Roderich's beautiful eyes. "I don't want to be hurt again."

"I will never hurt you again."

"If you do, I will shoot you," Vash said with a small smile.

"I've no doubt. Believe me, Vash, having made that harsh mistake once, I will never, ever repeat it." He kissed Vash's hand again, but the blond leaned down and pressed his lips to Roderich's.

They spent several delightful minutes reacquainting themselves this way, with little joyous murmurs and the tender touch of hands on each other's hair.

"I'm so happy," Roderich smiled. "I wasn't sure whether you – still thought fondly of me, whether you still held the memory of me in your heart."

"Of course I do. You idiot." Vash grinned and bent down for another kiss.

Lili, holding the tea tray, peeked through the door, and decided to take her tea out on the back lawn.

…

_The anagram was "Harsh Divorce."_


	99. Gilbert and Mathias

**Gilbert/Mathias.**

Gilbert, wearing casual clothing, put on his tiara and sadly walked down the path from his modest home. He was very sad. Roddy had broken up with him this morning! To go back to _Vash!_ Gilbert wondered just what the hell Roddy was thinking, but he wasn't going to stand around pining for him. Oh, no. With his awesome tiara on, he went for a walk to think about things. Feliciano's party was coming up tomorrow night, and he needed to think about getting a date. He could simply avoid going, it's true – but Gilbert loved parties, and didn't want to miss it. He could always ask Elizaveta as a fallback, but he wasn't quite in the mood to deal with her for an entire evening, and he knew he wouldn't be in such a mood tomorrow night, either.

He plodded along. It was early afternoon, a fine day. He could tell the sun was glinting beautifully off the tiara, because there were little sparkles dancing on the sidewalk as he went. Gilbert spent some time thinking about the tiara and wondered why Arthur had thrown it away.

At the end of the road, he looked both ways, trying to decide which way to walk. He didn't have a real destination. Walking was always very therapeutic for him, and while his brain puzzled out what to do, his feet needed to move. He looked to the left, seeing the small local store with a coach outside, and he looked to the right, seeing the farms and homesteads in the sun. He decided to turn right.

As Gilbert walked, his steps got slower, his heart heavier. When would he ever find a real date? Someone that would stay with him, and not just consider him a time-filler, like Rod obviously had. So unawesome. How could anyone prefer Vash to him? It was, frankly, baffling. "Baffling!" he yelled.

Down the road, he turned and walked towards the river path, keeping his eyes on the ground. He walked around the corner of the path and bumped into someone. "Oh. I'm sorry," he said, straightening the tiara, which had shifted, and looking up.

He'd never seen this stunning man before. He was tall and blond, with spiky hair and wide blue eyes – Gilbert's favorite color for eyes, after his own striking crimson ones. Gilbert felt like an idiot as he stared at the handsome vision, but could not force himself to look away.

Apparently the blond man was having a similar issue of his own. "Excuse me," he grinned. "I certainly wasn't expecting to bump into such a beautiful vision out here on the river path."

_Beautiful vision_? Gilbert's brain dimly registered that compliment and he smiled. "My name is Gilbert Beilschmidt." He held his hand out.

"I'm Mathias Kohler." They shook hands. "Very pleased to meet you." They continued to hold hands for a minute before Gilbert felt like an idiot and let go. "Why are you wearing a beat-up tiara?"

"I - well, it belonged to a friend, who didn't want it. I thought it was awesome, so I took it, and I wear it all the time. It's only white topaz, but I still love it, even though it's beat up."

"It detracts from your good looks," Mathias considered. "People will spend more time looking at the tiara, and not enough time looking at your handsome albino face."

Gilbert actually blushed. He took the tiara off and looked at it. "It is _very_ beat up, isn't it?"

"Let me look at you properly without it." Mathias put his hand under Gilbert's chin and tilted his face towards the sun.

Gilbert looked at him and smiled. Just a quiet, little, possibly mysterious, smile.

"Breathtaking," Mathias finally said, stroking Gilbert's jawline. "You really should not wear it. It blights you."

"Then I won't wear it," Gilbert decided. "I'll give it to someone tomorrow night."

"What's tomorrow night?"

"Ah!" Naturally Gilbert felt that Fate had stepped in to provide him with a date. He explained about Feliciano's Hawaiian party, carefully watching Mathias' face as he did so.

"I love parties," Mathias said, smiling, when Gilbert had stopped talking.

"Me too." He watched his new friend to see if he'd say anything, but all Mathias did was waggle his eyebrows.

"Will you be my date?" Gilbert finally asked.

"Yes."

"Good! Do you have anything Hawaiian to wear?"

"I can probably come up with something. I'm new in the area. It will be interesting to meet a lot of new people."

"You're not allowed to go running off with anyone else, though," Gilbert cautioned.

"Why the hell would I want to do that, when I could be with you?" He put an arm around Gilbert's shoulders and squeezed briefly. "I can't imagine there will be anyone there who might catch my eye. Not after this sudden and dramatic meeting today. It's like something out of a story."

Gilbert sighed. "I agree." Then he stopped to consider the logistics of tomorrow's date. "Where do you live?"

"Come with me, I'll show you." Mathias took Gilbert by the hand and led him up the river path, and Gilbert, holding his tiara in his other hand, felt like a hundred years of loneliness had suddenly fallen away.

"Kesesese!"

…

_The anagram was "Tiara Blights Me."_

_I felt really bad for poor Gilbo because he has constantly been thwarted on dates throughout this whole story. And he didn't get to keep the jet-pack robot, either…I just felt very sad for him._


	100. Feliciano and Lovino

**Feliciano/Lovino.**

Feliciano was quite pleased! Tonight was the Hawaiian party. The decorations were in place; guests were arriving and happily wearing Lili's anthracite leis. Native Hawaiian foods were set up on long tables in his garden. A few musicians played quiet ethnic tunes. Alfred was due to arrive soon, and they were very excited to share some special news with all their friends.

The only thing disturbing Feliciano at this point was the whereabouts of his brother Lovino. Oh yes, and Arthur, too, although that was only a minor consideration. Feliciano loved his fratello and hoped no harm had come to him. He knew Lovino was prone to getting in trouble.

Everyone seemed to be tiptoeing around the topic tonight, though. Once or twice someone had started to mention Lovino's name and then abruptly changed the subject. He wished he could get people to stop that. If they were concerned about his fratello, he'd like to know! It would reassure him, knowing that other people cared.

Roderich's elegant coach, drawn by its six white horses, drove up. Feliciano smiled. Roderich always lent such a festive air to a gatheri—_oh_. He'd forgotten Gilbert would be with him. But strangely enough, Gilbert and a complete stranger dismounted from the coach and headed down the torchlit path back towards the party in the gardens. The coach rolled away, presumably back to Roderich's place.

Feliciano sighed and stepped forward to greet the guests. Gilbert was holding his tiara, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a pair of shorts. "Welcome to the party," Feliciano said happily. "Where's Roderich, ve?"

"Oh, he's bringing Vash as his date tonight. This is my new friend Mathias. This is our host, Feliciano." They shook hands. These introductions made, Gilbert looked at Feliciano in his pale sage green summer suit and frowned. "Something's not right about your outfit," he decided.

Feliciano began worrying a little, looking down at his clothing. "If there's something I need to fix, please tell me! Ve, I want to look _good_ tonight."

"Ah, it's easy to fix." Gilbert plunked the tiara down on Feliciano's auburn hair. "There ya go. Keep it – it looks really awesome on you!" He took Mathias by the hand and they ran off to the buffet tables.

Feliciano stared after him in amazement, absently straightening the tiara.

He was still staring in that direction when Alfred arrived, sneaking up behind him to embrace him. "Hello, my love," he crooned in his sexy voice.

"Oh! Alfred!" Feliciano turned in his arms and slipped his arms around him, kissing him gently. "I'm sorry. I was distracted by Gilbert and didn't see you arrive."

"I see you're wearing the tiara. How did that happen? It looks – well, I won't kid you, you look a bit silly because it's still all bent out of shape."

Feliciano explained what Gilbert had done.

"Huh. Why don't you go put it away somewhere? If you really like it, I'll have it repaired for you later in the week?" He caressed Feliciano's cheek.

"Thank you. I'm not sure whether I want to keep it or not, but I might as well wear it tonight, ve. It will be fun and festive, since this isn't a formal party."

Alfred kissed him again. "Whatever you want. You know you always look perfect to me."

"Ve, we shouldn't stand here kissing all night! Though that would be fun. Come over to the tables." He led Alfred over by the hand. People began to give the tiara funny looks.

When all the guests had arrived, Feliciano stepped up to the dais where the musicians were, holding Alfred by the hand. The dance area, a temporary hardwood floor in front of the dais, was completely empty; people stood around its edges, holding drinks or plates of food, and talking to each other. "Hi, everyone! Thank you for coming to my Hawaiian party!"

Guests clapped dutifully.

"I – uh – Alfred and I have some news we'd like to share with you, with all of our friends, ve." He stopped a moment to think sadly about Lovino, but then put that out of his head. He hoped that wherever his fratello was, he was safe and happy. He loved Lovino and missed him a lot.

Alfred squeezed his hand in encouragement. "Next month, Alfred and I are —" Feliciano was cut off as a swirl of sand appeared like a hurricane in the middle of the temporary dance floor. Everyone stepped back out of the way, coughing and wiping their eyes as the sand spread out into the air around the dais.

Several disturbing minutes later the sandstorm settled to show a trio of people standing, bedraggled, in the middle of the floor. Lovino was there, frowning, wearing his now-shabby formalwear from the night of Alfred's party. A young kid in a purple sailor suit stood scowling at everyone. And Arthur, shirtless in coarse blue pants and boots, was white and sweating, holding Lovino's hand in a death grip.

"Fratello, you idiot!" Feliciano yelled. "You spoiled my news, ve! I hate you!" He jumped down off the dais and ran to attack Lovino, who was quite confused.

"Wait, dammit! Wait! What the hell's going on around here? It's _summertime?" _He held his brother at arm's length and looked around. But Arthur collapsed on the dance floor, onto a pile of sand. Lovino knelt beside him. "Where the fuck did that little purple bastard go?"

But no one had paid attention to Peter, and he'd run off. Lovino turned his attention back to Arthur. Most of the guests were standing around in bafflement. "Bring some water or something," Lovino barked to his brother.

"Ve~," Feliciano said sadly, and gestured to one of Alfred's footmen, who had been loaned for the occasion.

Everyone was trying not to stare, and failing.

The footman threw the water right in Arthur's face. He finally sat up, coughing and spluttering. "What's going on?" he croaked.

"We're home," Lovino said softly, brushing his wet hair off his face. "We can go inside and get some rest."

Arthur looked around. "Did we interrupt something?"

"Yes, you did!" Alfred shouted. "You meddling fool! Get out of here and take your stupid magic with you!"

Both Lovino and Arthur stared at him. "You what?" Arthur asked tiredly.

"Ve. Alfred and I were about to make an announcement, that's all. You ruined it."

Lovino turned back to Arthur. "At least let's get out of the middle of this crowd." He took Arthur's hand to help him stand up.

"Are you all right, Arthur?" Feliciano asked kindly. He wondered what he'd ever seen in the scruffy green-eyed blond. Lovino must be _nuts_.

"I'll be fine, I suppose." He looked at the tiara with a raised eyebrow, but didn't say anything.

"Come on, let's go sit down. I want to hear whatever announcement my foolish brother is going to make." Lovino led Arthur to a bench, still holding his hand; other guests began to lose interest and turned back to Feliciano and Alfred.

"Yes, well, anyway, ve, Alfred and I are going to be married next month," Feliciano said weakly, feeling that his dramatic news had been somewhat diminished by the flamboyant arrival of his brother and Arthur.

_"Kesesese~!"_ was the first reaction to this, and then all the other guests began circling around the happy pair, offering congratulations and asking questions about the engagement.

On the bench, Lovino turned to his friend. "I think we may have been better off staying on the island," he conceded.

…

_The anagram was "One Civilian Fool." Not sure whether that's Arthur, Lovino, or Feliciano, here, but..._

_Thank you for reading my Anagram Stories! This is the end. I may start something similar using the Word of the Day from the OED and Webster's._


	101. Denmark and Holy Rome

_Upon rereading the existing chapters I was struck by the similarities between how I'd treated Holy Rome and Denmark, so on a whim I plugged them into the anagram generator together. There was a winner, so I'm adding a chapter. This takes place in the mid-1700s, somewhere after Holy Rome tried to seduce Spain in chapter 52 but before he tried making out with America in chapter 55. At this point in history, Denmark had recently won back the areas of Schleswig and Holstein from the Holy Roman Empire._

…

**Denmark/Holy Rome.**

Holy Rome stomped disconsolately around the empty battlefield. The war was over – at least temporarily – and although he'd lost both Schleswig and Holstein to that overgrown meddler Denmark, at least he, Holy Rome, was still intact. He'd live to fight another day, and he'd get his duchies back, oh yes!

But today, he was all alone, wandering over the erstwhile battlefields, thinking about the futility of war, and how much it hurt him. The back of his mind was also vaguely preoccupied with sex. But there was no one around to help him with that. He sighed. If only Spain hadn't been so stubborn. He really had thought there was a chance of success. His freakish brother France had been completely off the mark, there. Holy Rome kicked a pebble and walked off the battlefield toward the town. He wanted to look at his beautiful Kiel one last time, before admitting that it had to go to Denmark now.

He turned a corner and bumped into someone. "Ow. Sorry," Holy Rome grumbled, without looking up.

"H-Holy Rome?" he heard. From high above him. Holding his hat securely on his head, he looked up – and up – until his wide eyes met the equally-astonished azure gaze of Denmark himself.

"Oh! I – I'm so sorry, Holy Rome." Denmark didn't look sorry. He was grinning at Holy Rome. That was a little suspicious. They'd just opposed each other in a war! "I was just taking these models to the clockmaker's."

Holy Rome looked at Denmark's strong hands. He was holding small models of cuckoo clocks in each hand. "Wh-what are they for?" he asked, curious despite himself.

"I make them so the Danish clockmakers have an artistic guideline for new models. Do you like cuckoo clocks?" Denmark extended a handful of tiny clocks towards the shorter nation.

"I – I actually have a very strong tradition of cuckoo-clock-making," Holy Rome admitted, drawing near to admire Denmark's hand – _handiwork_. "My artists are quite capable of coming up with designs on their own, however." He was feeling a bit conflicted here. Denmark's cuckoo clocks were indeed inspiring. And Denmark himself – well –

But they'd just fought a war! Holy Rome shook his head.

"Are you all right?" Denmark asked, drawing his models back.

"Yes. I'm just wondering why you're taking Danish cuckoo clock designs to Kiel."

Denmark's grin grew feral. "Because Kiel is _mine_ now, little one," he laughed. "Have you already forgotten? All the cuckoo clocks in Kiel are going to be Danish cuckoo clocks now!" He cackled loudly, swinging the clocks back and forth by their chains.

"Shut up," Holy Rome responded inelegantly. Why was he always attracted to irritating people? Except France, of course, he hurriedly corrected himself. He was irritating, all right, but Holy Rome would never, never, never be attracted to him.

But Denmark stopped laughing and set the cuckoo clocks down. "Don't be angry, Holy Rome. We're going to be neighbors, always, no matter who has control of Schleswig and Holstein. We should cooperate in a spirit of harmony. Yes?" He reached out and hugged the shorter nation.

"De-Denmark? Why are you – you hugging me?" Holy Rome almost recoiled, before wondering whether Denmark might not be in the same situation he was. After all, if it weren't for the narrow neck of land comprising Schleswig and Holstein, Denmark would be an island. Island nations were always lonely, weren't they?

Well. Except _England._ Holy Rome growled at that memory.

Denmark hadn't let go of him, but he did now. "I'm sorry, Holy Rome. I shouldn't have hugged you. I've just, well, uh," he scratched his spiky hair, "it's difficult for me to have any kind of physical affection with anyone. Being as isolated as I am."

Holy Rome let out a noncommittal grunt.

"But you're so good-looking," Denmark went on with a grin. "I really couldn't help myself. I'm partial to blue-eyed blonds." He laughed and batted his eyelashes at Holy Rome, who laughed despite himself.

"So you're feeling lo-lonely?" Holy Rome then managed. He sat on a large rock by the side of the road and took off his hat.

Denmark joined him, sitting fairly snugly up against him. "Yeah. You know that guy Prussia? I really like him, but…he won't pay attention to me. I guess he has a boyfriend, or a girlfriend, already." He sighed.

Holy Rome snorted. "That irritant. Nobody wants to date him." His thoughts slid into memory. "I kissed him once," he mused aloud, before realizing what he was saying.

"You what? Wow, Holy Rome, you're so little, and you've kissed him? Oh, it was probably like a social kiss, right? Kiss on the cheek?" Denmark was a little red. Deep inside Holy Rome, a little something fluttered at that.

"No…we…started to make out, but then he…remembered he had to go do something." Damn that albino nuisance. "Yes, that was it."

Was it his imagination, or had Denmark shifted even closer? "You – so you're old enough to – to make out with people?" the taller blond asked. "You seem so young."

"You know how old I am," Holy Rome snapped.

"You're right!" Denmark sounded surprised. "I wonder why I always think of you as a little kid? Do you want to make out?"

Holy Rome almost missed that last bit, because he was so annoyed about being thought of as a little kid. "Wh-what?" he finally asked, looking up to see Denmark beaming at him.

"Aw, come on. Let bygones be bygones? I really do get exceedingly horny," Denmark added in a very matter-of-fact voice. "I wouldn't want to have sex with you, you know, but we could make out for a while. It's a nice day for it." He looked around the area. "My cuckoo clock makers aren't expecting me for a while."

Holy Rome found all this clinical chat rather repellent. "Don't you believe in – in _seduction_?" he asked. "You just plop down and ask somebody if they want to make out? That's rather graceless of you."

"So you don't want to?" Denmark replied, seemingly unoffended.

What? Hadn't he registered what Holy Rome had just said? "I – uh –"

Denmark stood up. "Well, that's all right, then. Maybe I'll go look for Prussia after I'm done with the cuckoo clock artisans." He scooped up his models again and headed towards the town. "Take care, Holy Rome! I'm sure we'll meet on a battlefield soon!"

Holy Rome listened to the other nation's fading laughter in disbelief. What the hell had just happened? "Damn!"

…

_The anagram was "Horny Model Maker."_


	102. Denmark and Prussia II

**Denmark/Prussia.**

"Hey, Prussia. Come over and visit me tonight. I've got a new batch of gravlaks and I finally finished fixing up the house from all that mink damage. The place looks great and I want to show off."

"Kesesese! Sure. You want me to bring some beer?"

"Bring whatever you want…to drink, I mean. I've got beer here, but…more beer never hurts."

"Right! I'll be right over with some awesome beer."

"It's cold! Make sure you wear a warm coat. I wouldn't want you getting sick."

"Will do. Light a fire, all right? It's a nice night for staring into the fire."

"Sure. Hurry up."

"Right!" Prussia hung up and did a little dance before getting his outdoor things on. He was going to spend time with Denmark!

…

"Come in the living room; open up a couple beers for us. I'll get the food. Just throw your coat on the couch and have a seat. Hey!" Denmark noticed. "I have this same exact parka. It's a great one, warm and lightweight and still stylish."

"I know! West didn't want to let me get it because it was too expensive, but I awesomely talked him into it."

"Good for you." He went to the kitchen to fetch the food.

"You don't have any cupcakes, do you?" Prussia asked as they sat to munch gravlaks and drink beer. Denmark had a new video game they were going to play later. They were going to have so much fun tonight!

"As a matter of fact, I do. Since I hoped I could entice you into coming over."

"Kesesese!" Prussia thought about this. "I'm surprised you're not out with Hungary. The way you two were all over each other in the Land Rover."

"Meh," Denmark answered. "She's pretty, but…I couldn't get comfortable knowing that frying pan was lurking around."

"I know what you mean." Prussia drank a little beer. "I know _exactly_ what you mean."

They ate and drank in silence for a little while. The albino was enjoying the quality Danish food and atmosphere, so he decided to bring up an even riskier topic. "Surprised you're not with America, then."

"It's funny," Denmark mused. "I had so much fun with America for about a month, and then it was like a door opened in my mind."

"What do you mean?"

"Well…I – it was like I woke up one morning and had this sudden revelation that I didn't want to be with him."

"That's kind of abrupt. Give me another beer."

Denmark gave him another beer. "I – I thought about what you'd said to me once. Remember that day we went grocery shopping? With the sardines?"

"Of course I remember. I remember everything I've ever done with you, Den. At least, in the last hundred years or so. I love to spend time with you." He beamed at his spiky-haired friend.

Denmark blushed and grinned at him. "Well. You told me you had been – been trying to, uh, seduce me?"

"Yeah, I totally have been," Prussia admitted, interrupting, clueless. "For centuries."

"I – well – I've liked you for such a long time. And when you said that, it made me a little sad, because it seemed like maybe you liked me for a long time, too."

"Yes!" Prussia was now beginning to get a clue, so he shut up after that little outburst.

"So, that day when I woke up and didn't want America, I realized it was because I wanted to be with – with you."

Prussia's jaw dropped unattractively; luckily, he was not eating anything at the time. But Denmark was looking down at the platter of gravlaks, fiddling with a sprig of dill. "I so awesomely _do_ want to be with you, Denmark. Do – you _do_ mean you want to date, right? I don't want to be too forward but I would love to date you."

Denmark let out a short bark of laughter. "Yes, you oblivious albino. I want to date you! Will you be my boyfriend?"

"Yes, yes, _yes!_" Prussia jumped up on the couch and started bouncing on his parka. "I'm going to be Den's boyfriend! Awesome!"

He jumped for about another minute while Denmark watched him with a raised eyebrow, and then he abruptly sat down. "Uh. You're not mad at me for jumping on the couch, are you?"

"Prussia, what I like about you is your exuberance. Well, that and you're so hot. So, don't worry about it. Jump as much as you want."

"Kesesese, I will. I'm going to jump for joy all the way home."

"Uh –"

"Uh what? I can do it. I've got awesome reserves of energy."

"No, stupid, I meant, 'uh, I was hoping you'd spend the night with me tonight.'" Denmark scratched his head.

"Oh, yeah. Sure, I don't mind. Especially if you've got cupc—_oh._" Prussia blushed. "You mean _spend the night with you._" He took a deep breath. "Denmark. I will definitely spend the night with you. I'm sorry I was so clueless."

Denmark reached out a hand and ruffled the white hair. "I can see it's going to be a lot of fun with you. A real challenge." He moved closer on the deep leather sofa and placed his other arm around Prussia's waist. "I hope we're both strong enough."

Prussia's voice deepened seductively. "Den – if you're not strong enough to take it, I'll be strong for you."

To his amazement Denmark burst into laughter. "I wasn't talking about _me!_ I was talking about you." He kept laughing.

"Way to ruin the mood, you Nordic idiot." Prussia punched him and Denmark immediately swooped in and kissed him. "Oh…"

"Put the damn beer down," Denmark growled. Prussia dropped the empty bottle onto the rug and lay back on his parka as his new boyfriend lay atop him. "I don't want to wait any longer." He slid his hands into Prussia's hair and pressed an insistent kiss to his lips.

"Nh" was Prussia's only response, before he wrapped his arms around Denmark's strong body and pulled him close.

…

The next morning, after a comfortable shared shower, Prussia prepared to go back home. "I really am going to jump all the way home; watch me." He kissed Denmark again and reached for his coat.

Denmark looked at it. "Every time I see that parka – yours, mine, anybody's – I'm going to be reminded of this very excellent –"

"—awesome –"

"—night and day we've spent together." He hugged the departing albino. "I'm so glad you said yes."

"Me too! I'm never going to get rid of this parka, Den, never, never, never! I'll call you when I get home!" He ran out the door, waving happily, and did indeed begin jumping for joy, all the way home.

…

_The anagram was "Parka Reminds Us."_

_I was hoping to make this the pre-Skirmish Brothers story of how they got together – especially since in the preceding anagram chapters I'd written how much these two had wanted each other through the centuries – but it doesn't quite dovetail properly. Pesky England and Romano would have to be not-dating in the modern day Anagram Stories to make that work right._


	103. Gilbert and Arthur

**Gilbert/Arthur.**

In the kitchens Gilbert bumped into Lovino. "What the hell are you doing in here?" Lovino scowled. "Don't be sneaking around my fratello's kitchens during a party!"

"Where's Arthur?" Gilbert asked. "Are you two awesomely dating? Is that why he was wearing a dress last time I saw him? Kesesese, isn't role play fun? Have you met my date, Mathias? He's outside. _Gorgeous_. Maybe I can get him to wear a dress, one of these days. Man, he'd look _sweet_ in a dress. Even better than Arthur did."

"Shut up, bastard," Lovino sighed, moving to the pantry. "Arthur's sleeping."

"Oh! I'll go find him, then. I have to go talk to him."

"Dammit, let him sleep!"

But Gilbert scurried from the kitchens. After peeking into several of Feliciano's spare bedrooms he finally found the sleeping blond. And much to his astonishment, he also saw the gift barrel he'd given Alfred, standing in the corner of the room, open, with the bale of camelhair poking out. He couldn't spot the lid. The albino began a not-very-clandestine search for it, rummaging around the room, waking Arthur, who lay on the bed watching him without saying anything for a while.

"Git," he eventually said.

"Oh! Artie!" Gilbert left off the hunt for the barrel's lid and came to sit on the bed. "Hey, are you all right? What's been going on?"

Arthur flopped back onto the pillow. "Too much to bother explaining. It's not really important."

"Are you dating Lovino now? You're lucky. He's so hot."

Arthur narrowed his eyes at his friend. "Did you ever – er – date him?"

"Are you kidding? First of all, Rod would never have let me, and second of all, Lovino can't stand me! Well, he says he can't. I know he wants me, just like everybody else does, but it just wasn't worth the effort, not when Roderich would have gotten so pissed off at me." He considered Roderich for a moment, growing sad, before remembering he was dating the awesome Mathias.

"So why are you here, git? Just come up to torment me and keep me from sleeping?"

"Oh! Well, no, I just felt like talking to you. I've missed you and a lot of stuff has happened since you ran off with the tiara that night."

"I didn't run off with the bloody tiara."

"You know what I mean. I had that tiara for a long time. Kept expecting you to come back and claim it. Where were you?"

"Eh, I said, never mind. What's going on with you? What did you do with the tiara?" Here Arthur looked past him to the gift barrel. "And what the hell is that?"

"Oh, just some camelhair I gave Alfred."

"What? I thought I was at Feliciano's place?" Arthur looked around in a panic.

"You are, you awesomely are, calm down and relax. Feliciano and Alfred are going to get married, so tonight I guess is their engagement party. Dunno why the gift barrel's over here, though; it used to be at Alfred's place."

"Alfred…is…marrying…_Feliciano_? How long were we gone, anyway?" He scratched his head.

"It's early July now. Where did you go?"

"Early _July_? We were only gone for about three nights!" They stared at each other in bafflement.

Gilbert was the first to cave, having a shorter attention span. "Well, I'm trying to find the lid to that barrel so I can close it up again. It's not good for camelhair to be exposed to the humidity of this area. I was going to push it back into the barrel and make sure it was safe."

"Git. You woke me for that? I ought to push _you_ into the ruddy barrel." Arthur fell back on the bed again.

"Aw. Don't be mad. I came up here to talk to you, not to fix the stupid barrel! But if Alfred's so dumb that he can't take care of this camelhair –"

"Alfred is a wanker."

"Yes, I knew you'd say that. Come on, get up and help me find the lid."

"Might as well. I can see I won't be getting any sleep until you get the bloody thing fixed." Arthur got off the bed and started hunting around. "What's it look like?"

"Kesesese! All that vacationing has turned your brain to mush! It looks like the lid of a barrel!" Gilbert kept laughing even though Arthur hit him. "Come on, no hitting. Help me find it. It's, uh, round, and made of wood, kesesese…"

"Give me a break. I'm exhausted. I had to do all kinds of magic while I was gone." He looked into the closet.

"What for? To seduce Lovino? Ha ha!"

"You're the world's biggest git, Gilbert. You think I need _magic_ to get a date?" Arthur snarled and punched the closet door.

"Well, if you _didn't_, then why didn't you go out with him before?" Gilbert bent to look under the bed and Arthur kicked him in the rear; he lurched forward and hit his head on the bed frame. "Ow! Damn it! Ow, ow, ow…"

"Shut it. You sound like a girl. Get out from under the bloody bed."

Gilbert crawled out from under the bed. "Did you find the barrel lid yet?"

"No, wanker, I did not." Arthur started opening and closing dresser drawers.

Gilbert walked over to the barrel. "Why the hell did Alfred even drag this over here? All the looms for weaving it are at his place!" Frustrated, he kicked the big barrel, and his boot went right through the wood. "Oops."

Arthur turned from the dresser. "Oops what?" Then he saw the gaping hole in the side of the barrel. "Oh. Oops."

"Stupid Alfred and his stupid barrel!" Gilbert felt idiotic about breaking the barrel so he kicked it again, to vent. And again. And again, until eventually there was a pile of mixed splinters and camelhair lying on the floor among the metal barrel hoops.

"Git," Arthur laughed. "Now he can't even use the camelhair; it's all splintery. He's going to kill you."

"It's his own fault. He should have kept the lid on it." Gilbert kicked the pile of trash one more time and discovered the lid lying behind it. "Uh. Here's the lid."

Arthur began laughing just as Lovino popped into the room. "What the fuck's going on in here, bastards?"

The blond kept laughing but reached his arms out to Lovino. "Come lie down with me. Bloody Gilbert just broke Alfred's gift barrel."

"I'm telling you, it's his own fault."

"Get out of here, Gilbert. I'll come and talk to you when I'm rested, all right?"

"Yes, all right, Arthur. Uh – you staying here, Lovino?"

"Yes, dammit. Get out. Go find your date. He was sniffing around Vash when I came up."

"What? _Vash?_" Gilbert ran out of the room, hearing the snick of the lock behind him. "No, no, no!"

…

_The anagram was "Git Hurt Barrel." _

_I know - I know - I do remember that Gilbert was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and shorts. But, you know, he really is awesome enough to wear boots with that and look good regardless._


	104. Gilbert and Antonio

**Gilbert/Antonio.**

"Hey, Tonio!" Gilbert called, once he'd secured Mathias and dragged him away from that homewrecker Vash. "Come here! I want you to meet someone!" People were still having fun at Feliciano's party, taking turns to congratulate the happy couple and weakly admire the broken tiara on the young man's head as it twinkled in the light from the tiki torches.

The Spaniard, standing under the trees with Elizaveta, dutifully broke away from his halfhearted attempts at flirting with her, and loped over to Gilbert and his friend. "_Hola, amigo_." They gave each other air kisses. Gilbert watched Elizaveta wander off. Maybe she was looking for Francis.

"Tonio, I want you to meet my new friend Mathias." He patted Mathias' arm. "This is my old friend Antonio."

The two men shook hands. "How are you enjoying the party?" Antonio asked politely.

"Kesesese! It's great. Uh, except I broke a barrel."

Both the others ignored this. "You're not wearing the tiara!" Antonio looked shocked. "What happened? Did you lose it? Did Alfred take it back? I saw that _bastardo ingl__é__s_ around somewhere; is Alfred going to try to win him back with the tiara? It was pretty beat up!"

The albino stared at him in confusion. "Tonio, you have no clue, do you? Alfred is going to marry Feliciano."

"Oh, well, I heard that, _amigo_, but I don't believe it, not one little bit. Francis thinks Feliciano will come to his senses at the last second and flee."

Gilbert considered this. "That might be true. Francis does know about such things. And Alfred doesn't deserve him. He can't even take care of his camelhair!" He scowled, but then recollected himself. "But you know, even if Feliciano dumps him, Alfred's probably not going to be able to win Arthur back. He and Lovino are looking mighty, mighty close; they're up in one of the bedrooms right now."

Antonio cleared his throat, somehow managing to make it sound menacing.

Oh. Right. "How are your awesome pets doing?" Gilbert asked hastily. He knew Tonio would barely notice such an abrupt change of topic.

And he was right. "Oh, well, my cats have been enjoying their siestas, as usual, but I have a new pet, a gerbil."

"A _gerbil_? Why?"

"I love gerbils," Mathias put in. "I used to have a couple, but…they died, so I tossed them in the trash."

Antonio and Gilbert both eyed him askance.

Mathias shrugged. "Well, it's true! I read all these expensive and important books about how to care for gerbils, and they still died. Ever since then, I can't bear the thought of any kind of rodent. I still have nightmares about it."

Gilbert sought frantically for a new topic, but all he could come up with was "Will you please get me a beer, Mathias?"

"Sure, I don't mind. Want anything?" he asked Antonio.

"No, gracias."

The two old friends watched the blond meander over to the buffet tables. "Sorry," Gilbert said. "I've only known him for a couple of days. I didn't know he could be so – so coarse."

"Eh, maybe it's good that he said that. I have some gerbil books too. I'll need to be more attentive. But I have been making notations of important things, so I can take care of my little Lovi, and if I can just remember –"

"You _what?_" Gilbert was quite, quite confused.

"Oh! I named my gerbil Lovi. That way I can always have a little Lovi around to pet and cuddle, even if the real Lovi is off being stupid with that _desagradable pirata_." He snarled.

"Well," Gilbert considered, "the real Lovino may kill you if he ever finds out you named a gerbil after him. I mean, maybe if it was something awesome, like a bull, or a – a mink, or something, he might be all right with it, but a _gerbil_?"

"I can call my gerbil whatever I want. So, anyway, I made all these notations about what to do properly, and I've pinned them up next to the cage, so I don't forget anything."

"Ha, yeah; if your little gerbil Lovi dies, you're going to feel pretty guilty, aren't you? Kesesese!"

"Gilbert, _mi amigo_, shut the fuck up."

"Tonio, you are very touchy tonight!" Gilbert poked him. "Why don't you find an awesome date? Look how accommodating Mathias is being. You need to find someone else to take your mind off Lovino."

Mathias returned with the drinks. "Here you go, my little bundle of albino awesomeness."

Gilbert blushed and Antonio started laughing. "You're right, _amigo_; I do need to find someone. I need to find someone who will give me a cute little pet name like that."

This time Mathias blushed. "Sorry. I'm just so excited to be with Gilbert that sometimes I forget it's not appropriate to talk like that in public."

"I don't mind at all," Antonio laughed. "Gilbert is like an adorable little albino gerbil, isn't he?" He pinched Gilbert's cheek. "Such a cutie."

"Damn it, Antonio, leave me alone. Go make some more notations about gerbil care."

"Oh, that's a good idea!" Mathias nodded. "I often wished I'd done that, instead of just reading the gerbil care books. Writing things down helps reinforce the memory."

"I know," Antonio told him. "I'm already making plenty of notes. They are pinned up next to Lovi's cage."

"Well, just make sure you remember them. You really don't want your awesome pets to suffer. You'll have to invite me over one of these days so I can meet him."

"Sí, sí, I'll make a notation about that, too, and let you know later in the week. Uh – except there is just one thing, Gilbert."

"One thing what?"

"You said you want to meet _him_ – but my little gerbil is a girl!"

…

_The anagram was "Gerbil Notation."_

_The idea of Vash as a homewrecker is amusing me a great deal. Also, the concept of Antonio with his Lovi-gerbil is practically crying out for a fanart. I may do something about that, later._


	105. China and Liechtenstein

**China/Liechtenstein.**

"China! What are you doing here?" Liechtenstein tripped into the elevator wearing cheetah-print sneakers with her workout gear (black yoga pants and a pink tee with a teddy bear on it). "I didn't know you came to exercise classes after meetings. Tonight is calisthenics." She dropped her gym bag, printed with a picture of England's Flying Mint Bunny, onto the elevator floor.

"I love working out-aru. I don't usually come to the girls' night, because sometimes it's like a hen party, but this was the only free night in my schedule this week." China sported green sweats with stripes down the side but carried a gym bag with Hello Kitty on the side.

"I love Hello Kitty," Liechtenstein offered, pushing the button for the workout floor. The doors slid shut.

"I love all kinds of cute things. Look. Poland made me a pendant with a cute little lizard in it!" China flourished said pendant.

"That worries me a little. Poland offered Switzerland a pendant with a lizard in it, too. It's a bit strange." The blonde girl narrowed her eyes as she thought about this; then she eyed her sneakers and smiled.

"Oh! Speaking of Switzerland-aru, where is he?" China looked around the elevator in a flap, perhaps expecting Switzerland to leap out from behind the button panel.

"Bruder does not like to come to workouts. He is in his hotel room, working on a new project."

"Can you tell me what it is?" China seemed quite eager.

"I – I'm sorry, I believe it is confidential. But he is meeting me later; if you are truly interested I'm certain he could tell you about it. We could go have a glass of tea after our workout?"

Suddenly they both realized the elevator had not moved. "What's going on here-aru!" China kicked the button panel.

Nothing happened.

"Oh, dear," Liechtenstein moaned. "We always have such bad luck with elevators, Bruder and I." She punched the button for the workout floor. "Nothing."

China slumped onto the floor, head in hands. "This is no good. I hate being trapped! I'm going to start freaking out-aru."

Liechtenstein sat down beside the elder nation. "Please don't freak out, China. What can I do to help you keep your composure?"

China, still looking at the floor, said, "Talk to me about…I don't know-aru. Tell me where you got your clothes. Something. Anything."

"These clothes? Oh, there's a big sale at a store in France that I go to every year. They only have this sale for one weekend. I've been going there for ninety years! But this year all they had on sale were belts. I got this nice cinch belt, which has leopard print. Look." She rummaged in her gym bag and pulled out the cinch belt.

China looked at it. "That's not real leopard, is it?"

Liechtenstein giggled. "No, it's totally spandex!" She kept giggling, but did not explain why.

"Keep talking."

"Tell me about your things? Do you have a lot of Hello Kitty things? I have a pillow which is like Hello Kitty's head. It's very cute. Sometimes at night I hug it. Bruder thinks I'm nuts." She frowned subtly.

"Well, I wouldn't count myself among the Hello Kitty _obsessives_-aru, no. But I do collect a lot of items." China finally looked up at the young girl's face. "I'm in a bit of a lava lamp phase right now. They're not exactly _cute_ but they can be very soothing to look at."

"Oh, I agree. We went through a lava lamp phase about ten years ago. I think Switzerland still has them in a closet somewhere. Maybe when I get home I'll pull them out again. If we ever get out of this elevator."

"Stop talking about the elevator-aru!"

"Whoops. Sorry." Liechtenstein stood up and tried pushing the buttons again, but nothing happened.

"Talk to me some more," China groaned. "Sit down and talk."

"I don't know what else to talk about." Liechtenstein sat.

"Tell me why you have that figment of England's imagination on your gym bag. That thing's not even cute!"

"But you're wrong, China! Flying Mint Bunny is not a figment of England's imagination. I've met him – her – it – whatever. Flying Mint Bunny is a friend of mine."

China merely snorted. "Keep talking. Not about that creepy thing."

Liechtenstein tried to think of a good topic. "This hotel has a new pool, did you know that? I helped them set up this afternoon. The grand opening is tomorrow."

"What did you do to help set up?"

"They have fancy chaise longues there, that kind like astronauts use? They wanted to have them set up a specific way, so Hungary and I went around and inclined every tenth chaise to match their special scheme."

"I hope they were happy with your work."

"They certainly acted as though they were. The two of us will be special guests at a poolside party tomorrow."

A short silence fell before China began fidgeting again. "Liechtenstein, please keep talking to me, help me keep my mind together-aru!"

"I – er – well, I don't know what else to talk about! I'm so sorry. Should I try pressing the button again?"

"Might as well."

This time when Liechtenstein pressed the button, the elevator juddered, but still did not move or open its doors. "Well, that was at least something," she said. "Progress, of a sort."

"I need a drink-aru" was China's response.

Suddenly from somewhere they could hear a loud banging noise. Six harsh bangs, and then silence.

"Sounds like Bruder is here."

"Your brother is a menace! What if those bullets had come into the elevator and hurt us? I'm going to give him a piece of my mind, when I get out of here." China stood up and started kicking the elevator doors again.

On the third kick, the elevator began moving smoothly upwards towards the exercise floor. China slumped against the wall, breathing heavily.

At the destination floor, the doors slid open to reveal an irate Switzerland, smoking pistol in hand. "Liechtenstein! Are you all right? Why is China out of breath?" He turned the gun on China.

"Bruder, calm down, please." Liechtenstein laid a comforting hand on China's arm. "We were a little nervous about the elevator, that's all, and China was – was very brave," she finished, earning a little smile from the dark-haired nation.

"I'll be all right now. Thanks-aru. Maybe I'll skip workout and have that glass of tea we talked about." China picked up the Hello Kitty bag and made a beeline for the stairwell.

Liechtenstein shouldered her gym bag. "Come on, Bruder. Take me downstairs for a drink of tea, too."

…

_For __Ayumi Kudou._ _I got three good anagrams so I used them all! One was "Calisthenic Hen Nite," one was "Ninetieth Cinch Sale," and the last was "Incline Tenth Chaise." "Calisthenics" should technically be plural, but the generator gave it to me, so I used it._

_First time writing China; hope it was all right!_


	106. Romano and Prussia and England

_This chapter doesn't belong to any preceding Anagram Stories universe. I should have updated it yesterday to celebrate England's birthday._

…

**Romano/Prussia/England.**

The island nation paced relentlessly around his parlor, hands on hips (though they occasionally strayed to his sore abdomen). This was going to be very difficult, he knew; the whole situation was bizarre, and he wasn't quite sure how to handle it. He paced some more, thinking about the best way to proceed, and ultimately concluded that he needed to talk to both Romano and Prussia. Together. Soon.

…

Romano lay back on the sofa, moaning; he didn't feel well, and he now knew why. After a visit to the doctor this morning, his immediate future looked so bleak that he just wanted to lie on this sofa until he died. Which he hoped would be soon. He rested his warm hands on his stomach and started saying some prayers, hoping he could get through this, and also thinking about Prussia and England. Wondering how they were doing, and what they'd say when he saw them again. He hadn't seen either of them since that night at the Mexican restaurant four months ago.

"Dammit," he breathed weakly, once again wondering what to do.

"Ve? Are you all right, Romano?"

"No, dammit, I'm not all right, you idiot!" Ah, that felt better. It was always so refreshing to yell at someone. "Get out of here! No – no, wait. Bring me the phone, will you? I need to make a call."

"Of course, fratello. Hold on while I find the phone, ve." Veneziano ultimately unearthed the phone from underneath a chair cushion and handed it to Romano.

He checked it for battery life and began to dial a number, then stopped. "Leave me alone, dumbass," he told his brother, who pouted, but left. Romano dialed the number.

…

Prussia was relaxing on a deck chair; this late in September, it was a little cold, but he was braving the weather, hoping it would make him stronger. No beer for him today; he was drinking milk (milk! But milk was awesome, with vitamins and things!) and leisurely eating Gummibears. The albino stared up at the sky.

Ever since he'd lost his nation status, he had wanted to find a way to create some kind of legacy to the world, so that the awesome name of Prussia, the history of the Teutonic Knights, would not be forgotten, would live on in memory. These days he knew the only reason he pestered other nations so much was because he was, deep down, afraid they'd forget about him, afraid the word "Prussia" would soon become a faint memory, afraid he'd fade too. But he'd never been able to come up with any serious way to reassert himself on the world stage.

That night at the Mexican restaurant with his friends, he certainly hadn't been thinking about _that_. They'd eaten a great deal, he and Romano and England, and the salsa had been so delicious that they'd bought a few jars to take back to Romano's place. A few beers, a few laughs, and one thing had led to another; the three of them had segued into an orgy of sorts. They'd coated themselves with the salsa, laughing and finger-painting each other before licking it off, trying all sorts of inventive and new sexy things together in the security of their shared friendship.

And now Prussia was pregnant.

He wondered which of the others was the father. The complete absurdity of this situation escaped him; he only knew that he was pregnant, that he would soon have a baby to gift to the world, a child who would carry on his name and be his legacy. For the pain of childbirth he had no regard; the awesome Prussia would certainly be able to deal with it effectively.

But, he thought, sighing, he really ought to tell the other two about it. Even though one of them was going to be disappointed that he hadn't fathered a child.

At the completion of that thought, as though by magic, his telephone rang. "You've reached the awesome Prussia," he said cheerily to the unknown caller.

"Wanker. We need to talk."

"Kesesese! I was just thinking that. Want me to come over? Romano should come over, too."

"He's already on his way. Hurry up." The island nation hung up.

Of _course_ England would have read his mind, even over this long distance, and Romano's, too. He was a wizard! Maybe Prussia's baby would be a wizard, too. Kesesese!

…

England, wearing a big baggy apron, opened the door to Romano first. The brunet looked a little pale, dressed in sweats and an oversized jacket. "Come on in. Are you all right?"

"Nh. I just need to sit down. My feet hurt."

The blond looked down to see his friend's feet in sloppy sneakers, unlaced. "Well, come into the parlor and sit down. Would you like some tea? Coffee? Prussia should be here soon."

"Good. Uh, coffee is fine, I guess, bastard. Uh – " Romano pursed his lips at that, frowning slightly, as if reconsidering his choice of words, but didn't speak further.

"Just – just relax," England said, worried, "and I'll go get the coffee." The doorbell rang. "Oh, I'll get that first. Just get comfortable!" He hurried out of the room to answer the door.

Prussia was all in white, wearing jeans and a too-tight t-shirt. He looked a little paunchy, England considered, but didn't say anything except "Hello."

"Awesome to see you, my friend," Prussia replied, patting him on the cheek. "Nice apron. Very girly." The albino then bit his lips at that.

_What the bloody hell is going on?_ England wondered, but led his guest into the parlor and offered him a beer.

"No beer for me, Iggy. How about some milk?"

Both Romano (now shoeless) and England stared at him. "W-w-well, if you want milk, sure, I can bring milk." The island nation fled the room, almost in a panic. This was _freaking him out_. Did they know? Were they mocking him?

When he came back with a tray bearing a glass of milk, a cup of coffee, and a cup of tea for himself, neither Romano nor Prussia was speaking. "You gits all right?" he asked hesitantly.

"Nh," Romano said weakly, again, head in hands, but Prussia sat up straight on the sofa, taking the milk and sipping it delicately.

"I have some awesome news, but you probably knew it already, didn't you, magic boy? Kesesese! I'm going to have a baby!"

"_What?_" Romano yelled, and England dropped his teacup.

"Yep, you heard right," Prussia beamed. "The only time I've been with anybody lately was that night after the Mexican restaurant, so, one of you is the awesome – uh – father."

Romano began howling with laughter; England stooped to mop up the spilled tea. Fortunately the cup hadn't broken. "Seriously, git?" he asked quietly. "Because – because I'm pregnant, too. I just found out today." The blond blushed fiercely and looked down at the stained, wet carpet.

Prussia jumped up and hugged him. "Awesome! Our babies can be like brothers!"

But England turned to Romano. "You are, too, aren't you? That's why your feet hurt and you're wearing such baggy clothes."

Romano stopped laughing and nodded, grimacing. "I just hope it's not a potato baby," he said, sullen.

"Well, if it's not his, it's mine," England beamed. Suddenly this whole pregnancy thing wasn't looking so bad after all. A baby with Romano? Take _that_, Spain!

"Oh, you bastards, what the hell are we going to do? I'm going to be the laughingstock of Europe, dammit."

"I don't see why. Especially if you have a little baby albino, kesesese!"

_"Dammit!" _Romano threw his coffee cup at Prussia.

"Stop, stop!" England begged. "Please. It's not good for the babies and it's certainly not good for my parlor!" He got another cloth to mop up the spilled coffee. "We need to talk."

Prussia lay back on the sofa and began caressing his slightly-swollen abdomen. "Yes. We need to pick awesome names!"

"No, you stupid bastard. We need to figure out what they're going to look like!"

"Are you two complete gits? We need to make sure we all have excellent medical care, first!"

Prussia and Romano focused. "Oh. Yes. Wouldn't be awesome to have a lame doctor attending us."

For the next several hours the three of them, faced with this grim reality, worked out the logistics of mutual male childbirth.

…

Eventually they decided to stop talking about it and go eat somewhere. "Are we going to make some kind of announcement about this?" England scratched his head. "To the other nations, I mean."

"Don't see why, bastard. They'll figure it out soon enough."

"I'm sure they'll all be awesomely happy for me, whether we tell them or not."

"Happy for _you_, yeah. You're either going to have England's kid or mine. Anybody would be happy with chances like that. What about us? What if we both have stupid little albino spuds, dammit?"

"Aww. Tater tots, kesesese!"

England merely grimaced. They'd never hear the end of it, if that happened. _Never._

…

Five months later, at a world meeting, Romano had to leave the room as he began to go into labor. The meeting was completely derailed as nations began crowding around, offering advice, while both Prussia and England struggled, in their enlarged states, to help their suffering friend to the hospital.

All the way there, in the taxi, Romano moaned and gripped Prussia's hand in a death grip. "Hang in there, sweetie," the albino told him. "It should be over soon!"

"Get me to the hospital first, dammit," was all Romano could manage, sweating and groaning.

When they got there, England, highly-strung and irritable, chivvied the hospital staff into working at a fast pace to get Romano into a room and give him an epidural. (Prussia was the only one who had opted to try natural childbirth.) Once the anesthesia drip had begun, the brunet relaxed; dark circles framed his beautiful amber eyes, and his hair curl was limp and bedraggled.

"Don't leave me," he begged his friends. "Help me through it."

"We awesomely will." Prussia took his hand again, resting his other hand on Romano's swollen abdomen. England continued taking charge, making sure the three of them could share the room, making sure all the arrangements were properly in place. The three beds were close together, separated only by privacy curtains.

Within minutes, Prussia himself began feeling labor pains. He was inclined to disregard it at first, but it was soon evident that he was about to have his baby as well. The nurses bustled him into the center bed.

"Iggy, hold my hand," he begged, riding the excruciating waves of pain, letting the tears roll unashamedly down his face, occasionally screaming as he mercilessly squeezed his friend's hand. England did his best to deal with this, though he was still holding Romano's hand too, sitting midway between their two beds. At least Romano was calm now, stroking his belly as he watched Prussia yell. "Damn, Iggy, I think I want an epidural too," the albino groaned.

"Right. Just wait here," England said idiotically, putting Prussia's hand into Romano's while he went to find the nurse.

By the time the anesthesiologist came back, the blond had begun to experience contractions as well. Bent slightly forward, grinding his teeth, he tried to keep his groans quiet. Drowned out by Prussia's tears and Romano's harsh breathing, he did a good job for a little while, but the nurse realized what was happening and got him into the third bed.

One by one, each heavily drugged, they were wheeled out to the delivery rooms.

…

When Romano awakened he felt a strange weight on his lap and looked down to see the nurse placing his newborn son in his arms. He almost didn't dare to look, but upon seeing the boy was dark-haired, he blew out an enormous sigh of relief. Not an albino, then. Of course, that didn't guarantee it wasn't Prussia's child anyway. Some Germans did have dark hair. (Dammit!) He examined the calm child for any signs of his parentage.

Other than the dark hair, he didn't appear to have inherited anything from Romano himself. He lacked the hair curl, and his eyes, when the brunet softly opened them with a thumb, were green. England's eyes. Romano smiled fondly at the baby before realizing the newborn also had England's _eyebrows._ Dammit, the poor kid! Well, at least he wasn't a girl. A girl with those eyebrows would be fucking scary.

But he was beautiful. Romano lifted his new bambino and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He'd thought being a father would be frightening and make him more irritated, but looking at this adorable creation, he felt quite content. The half-nation lay back against the pillow, cradling his son, and they fell asleep together, sharing identical smiles.

…

England heard an unfamiliar noise, which awakened him. Oh! A nurse stood by his side, holding a baby. _His_ baby? His baby! He eagerly held his arms out to receive the scowling little bundle of joy.

"You – you're sure this one is mine?" he asked hesitantly. Surely this beautiful blond child couldn't be his.

"He's yours," the nurse said, smiling. "Guaranteed. We put the wrist tag on him immediately, as soon as he was born, so they wouldn't get mixed up."

The island nation let his gaze wander over the perfectly-formed baby while the nurse arranged things around his hospital bed. He was happy that his son had blond hair, a link with him. And he didn't have the eyebrows_._ That was simultaneously depressing and cheering. Closing his eyes in bliss, England kissed the boy, feeling the brush of downy hair against his cheek. He opened his eyes again to see that the newborn had a rather unruly, tiny, but still quite distinct, hair curl. Ah. Romano's son. England sighed happily, lifting the child's eyelid to find the as-yet-unseeing amber eyes. _Ah._

…

"Kesesese! Where's my awesome baby, nurse?"

"Here she is, sir," the nurse said, plunking the baby girl into Prussia's arms.

"A _girl!_ Sweet! Hey, Iggy, I had a girl! An _albino! _Hey, Romano!"

"We're right here, bastard," Romano laughed from his bed behind the curtain. "Nurse, can you open these curtains, please?"

She opened the curtains and left the three new fathers alone with their babies for a little while.

"I can't believe I had a girl!" Prussia crowed. "That's so awesome!"

"Er – can you tell which of us was the father?" England asked.

"Oh. I didn't even think to check. Well, let's see." Prussia examined the baby. "Hm. I can't really tell. Maybe I impregnated myself, kesesese!"

"You idiot."

"Don't be such a wet blanket, Romano; I was just joking. But still...I really can't tell."

England sighed. "Don't worry about it. Eventually she'll sprout a hair curl or something."

Romano laughed at him. "Or some eyebrows. That poor kid."

Prussia, ignoring this, continued. "But she has my eyes."

"Of course she does, wanker. If she's an albino. Poor little mite," England said. "Well. I'll love her anyway, your little girl; I love them all, already." He stroked his son's hair, smiling at his friends.

Prussia settled his little girl on his lap and reached out to take a hand of each of his friends. "They are all ours. All three of them belong to all three of us. Right?"

Romano's expression was unnaturally sentimental as he squeezed Prussia's hand in response. "Sure, bastard. And we all belong to each other, now."

"Yes. Nicest family of gits ever. Congratulations, my friends."

"Kesesese! Maybe we should all move in together!"

_"Dammit!"_

…

_The anagram was "Salsa: Adorn Mpreg Union." Weak, I know. I had__ decided never to write mpreg unless it was for something goofy like this story. When I realized that you could get 'mpreg' by anagramming my One True Threesome, I had to write it, although I did go over the word limit this time, and it didn't come out as goofy as I'd hoped. This is my last-ever foray into mpreg._

_Prussia was unable to father a child since he's only an ex-nation. Sorry. His daughter is England's._


	107. China and Spain

**China/Spain.**

"I'm so glad you decided to come to my place today-aru," China offered matter-of-factly, leading his guest downstairs. "I have some interesting things to show you. I've been wanting to get you alone for a long time." He offered his arm; Spain took it, delighted to be visiting this unusual home. It was a beautiful day; he'd accepted the elder nation's invitation for a visit, because truthfully, Spain had been quite desirous of furthering his relationship with China as well. Quite desirous of seeing _just how far_ he could take it. China's elegant eyes, his remarkable history, and his seductive voice had all combined to get into Spain's brain and obsess him a little bit. When the invitation had been proffered, he'd eagerly accepted.

"Where are we going?" he now asked, looking around the beautiful, airy home, so different from his own, or that of his European brothers.

China smiled. "To a secret room in my home."

Spain liked secrets. He slid his hand down to take China's hand, but the Asian nation's long sleeves prevented it, so he slid his hand back up. China was so mysterious and alluring. And he had such cute things at his home!

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, China stopped in place and turned to his guest. "Spain," he murmured, stroking his guest's cheek.

"Sí," Spain breathed, leaning closer, boldly slipping his arms around China's waist. Ah, that brocade felt so slippery under his palms…he rubbed his hands up and down against it, sensing the embroidery on the cool satin fabric.

His host didn't hesitate any longer, and drew the European nation closer for a kiss. Their tongues tangled together; Spain felt his heart flutter at the culmination of a scene he'd so long desired. "Mm, China…"

The two of them stood in the hallway kissing each other passionately for several minutes. Just as Spain decided to untie the intricate knot of China's belt, the other nation drew back. "Come with me-aru. I want to show you the secret room," he whispered enticingly.

"Show me whatever you like, _Cari__ñ__o_," Spain purred in agreement. He followed his host down a dark hallway and into a brightly-lit room scented with jasmine. "China! This room is beautiful!" Wallpapered in elegant pale silk, with overstuffed furniture here and there, hung with ornate paintings, rich rugs underfoot, the room had the appeal of a personal haven. "Like a sanctuary." Spain stood in the center of the room, spinning slowly, examining its appointments.

China smiled enigmatically. "This is my special room, Spain. I haven't brought anyone else here for a long time."

Spain's eyes widened. "Then why me?"

"I've watched you for a long time. You're a very attractive man, and I – well – I know you appreciate the cute things in my house, too-aru," China confessed. "That's important to me."

"You do have a lot of cute things. But I also like your artistic nature. The things you have chosen for this room are particularly lovely." Spain sat on the edge of a green silk pouf, and China stepped closer to him. This time he shook his sleeves back, exposing his elegant hands to take his guest's warm ones in his own.

"Wait until you see what I have special for you-aru." China bent down and kissed him sweetly on the mouth. "Just sit there and I'll get them." But then the Asian nation looked around the room. "No. Go over and lie on the couch." Spain did so.

"I don't want to take a siesta!" he called out playfully, as China moved to a large wooden trunk in the corner.

"A siesta is the furthest thing from my mind-aru," he laughed, opening the trunk and drawing out some chains.

"_Chains?_" Spain squealed, hopping off the couch.

"Now, now, my dear," the elder nation crooned. "Do you seriously think I'd do anything to hurt you? After wanting you for so long?"

This mollified Spain a little bit, but not much. "Wh-what are you going to do with them?"

"Just a little artistic thing. I want to see how you look, all wrapped up in them. And then – and then I'll take the chains off you, my sweet, and we can play, here in my secret sanctuary." China tilted his head to the side and smiled at Spain. "And besides, they're made of fine silver, so elegant against your tan skin. Do you agree? I won't do it, if you don't want to."

Spain thought for a moment. He was probably strong enough to break out of any chains, if China tried anything funny. Wasn't he? Of course he was. Fine silver was pretty flimsy, too. He just had one question. "Who's the last nation you used these chains on?" he wondered.

"Haven't ever used these before. I just got them, when you said you'd come over-aru."

Oh.

"Well, all right, you can do it, but you have to promise to take them off me!" He tried to give China a cute smile.

"Taking them off you is going to be the best part-aru," China admitted, running a long finger up and down the center of Spain's chest. "Please get undressed and lie on the couch."

Spain swallowed a yelp. He hadn't realized he'd be _naked_ in the chains. But that made sense, and he'd committed to it. Ah, he was the country of passion. He'd inspire China with so much passion that the chains would be off in minutes. Seconds. Spain grinned to himself and slowly began removing his clothes. "And you're going to stand there fully-dressed?" he wondered aloud. "Not much fun for me, you know," and here he winked.

He heard China's sharp intake of breath. "Mm, Spain, you really inspire me-aru." While the European nation struggled out of his clothing, China shook his hair loose from its tie. Then he undid a few knots; the embroidered coat fell to the ground, leaving him clad only in wide-legged silk trousers.

Now Spain caught his breath. Who would have suspected that beneath those flowing robes China had such a firm, strong body? He stood staring until China nudged him with an elbow and picked up the chains. "Very nice-aru. Stand still. I'll wrap you up."

Naked, Spain stood and felt the chill of the metal against his skin; it warmed up quickly, leaving no more than a cold memory. Soon China had finished the wrapping and directed his guest to lie back on the couch.

"Ah…beautiful," he sighed, looking at Spain, who was trying to appear nonchalant.

"How much longer do you plan to leave them on? They hurt a little bit," he admitted, although they really didn't hurt that much. He flexed his wrists, feeling the weight of them.

"I don't want you to suffer any pains, my dear. Let me help you out of them." China knelt to unwind the silver chains slowly and deliberately, trailing his elegant fingers along every inch of Spain's skin.

And once he was unwrapped, Spain played passionately with his host in the secret room all night long.

…

_The anagram was "Chain Pains." _

_I just felt like doing a crack Spain pairing love story. I've been accused of being too anti-Spain. (Kesesese.) This is my attempt to show that I am not anti-Spain. I just use him as a convenient foil because of his history with both England and Romano; the ex-pirate business means he and England are always willing to fight each other._

_Anybody know of a transliteration site for Chinese to English?_


	108. Romano and England II

**Romano/England.**

The sun shone brightly through the small window over the bathtub. England stood in front of the bathroom sink, putting toothpaste on his toothbrush. "Bastard, get out of my way." Romano elbowed the island nation in the ribs. "Dammit, will you move? I need the sink."

"I need the sink too, git. Shut up and wait." England stuck the toothbrush into his mouth and began flagrantly brushing, almost theatrically so. He watched in the mirror as the brunet scowled at him. Romano then looked around on the countertop for something, and England was completely caught off guard when Romano shoved him out of the way. "Ow!"

"Dammit, you're such a fucking hog. I hate staying at your place."

"Hey, just because you woke up too early is no reason to be crabby with me. I'm used to having the bathroom to myself."

"Selfish bastard." Romano finally cleared a little bit of space in front of the sink and pulled out his shaving things. "You need a bigger bathroom."

"Hah," England answered, around a mouthful of foam, "if things continue like this I probably need a whole second townhouse." He spat and tried to reach the cup so that he could rinse out his mouth, but Romano had moved it out of his reach. "Hand me the bloody cup."

"Get it yourself." Romano wet his shaving brush and began swishing it in the soap.

"Fine." England shoved him out of the way and reached in front of him to grab the cup.

"Bastard, can you not see that I'm trying to do something here?"

"Can you not see that I was here first?" England mocked in response.

"Fuck you," Romano said, and swirled the soap-laden brush all over England's face.

"Bloody hell!" England blew out breaths to get the foam off his face. "That's brutal." He swiped the rest of it off with his hand and flicked it at his friend's face.

"Ow!" Romano threw the brush into the sink; his half-soaped face glared at the blond in the mirror.

England ignored this and filled the cup with water, preparing to rinse his mouth out.

Romano jogged his elbow and the full cup went flying, showering them both with water and landing in the toilet. "Dammit!"

"Hey, don't yell at me, you stupid git. It was _your fault!_" England took advantage of Romano's inattention to turn on the water again and scoop water up with his hands to rinse the toothpaste from his mouth, spitting into the sink. He then began to scoop up more water to rinse the remaining foam off his face.

Romano kicked him in the calf.

"Stop it!" He took a handful of water and turned to fling it at the brunet's face.

Shaving soap began dribbling down the tan, angry face, and Romano kicked him again. "Get out of the way."

"Make me." England reached for the facial soap and began washing his face. If that git kicked him again, he'd – "Ow! That does it!" He hurriedly scrubbed the soap off his face with a sodden towel, turning around, and as Romano lifted his foot for another kick, England grabbed the ankle and helped it upward. Romano fell flat on his back, hitting his head on the opposite wall.

"You fucker." He lay on the floor, rubbing the back of his head.

"Hey, I wasn't the one kicking anybody. Now lie there and shut it while I finish here."

"Like that's going to happen," Romano muttered. When England turned back to the sink, Romano lifted a foot and planted it right in the island nation's arse. The blond jolted forward, bashing his forehead on the faucet.

"I've had it with you!" he roared, turning around and bending over. He scooped up the irate, struggling Romano and carried him out into the bedroom, flinging him down onto the bed. "And stay out!" he thundered, locking the bathroom door behind him.

Having gone through all that, standing in the bathroom alone, England now realized that he'd completed all his morning ablutions. Well, bloody hell, he wasn't going to open the bathroom door yet. That would be like – like _caving in!_ He was not about to do that.

So he first checked his forehead in the mirror – not bleeding, thank goodness. He rinsed his face once more and decided to sit down on the edge of the tub to get his composure back, but the shower curtain was in the way. He closed it and pushed it into the tub before sitting.

After a few minutes he felt himself calming down and began to look idly around the room. Eh, he'd leave it about two more minutes and then go out.

England became aware that he hadn't heard anything – no cursing, no movement – from the other side of the door since he'd come back in here. That was a bit worrying. He knew Romano was probably plotting something. But he wasn't really worried. The door was locked, and he –

A strange slithering sound made all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Was there a – a snake in the bathroom? He didn't dare turn around to look, but he'd heard stories of snakes coming up through tub drains. Hadn't Mr. Kipling written something about that? Or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle? He stilled, his ears twitching for further clues. Part of him was glad the shower curtain was shut, so that – whatever might be in there couldn't see him, and part of him wished the curtain was open, so he could see what might be slithering around in there!

Very, very slowly, he stood up and turned to face the tub.

But there was no sound. Maybe he'd imagined it? Blowing out a breath, he sat back down on the edge of the tub carefully, keeping his ears attuned to the tub area.

Suddenly there was a loud clatter, just like something knocking over a bunch of shampoo and soap bottles. England jumped up and stood with his back to the door, wondering just what the hell had climbed up through his drain!

Oh, no. No. It couldn't be Romano. That window was so small –

But Romano was a slender man. Maybe he could fit through it.

But the bathroom was on the second floor! He would have had to drag the big ladder out, in order to get up that high. No, it could _not_ be Romano.

The shower curtain rattled fiercely along its rings. "Aah!" England yelled, jumping into the air.

Romano leapt out from behind the curtain, hands out as if to strangle him. "Bastard, I'm going to kill you."

"Not if I kill you first!" They began struggling together in the cramped room, and England was so enraged that he slammed his friend right up against the wall.

Almost immediately he felt Romano soften against him, felt his body subtly mold to his. Bollocks, it was like a curse; every time they touched each other – _almost_ every time they touched each other, hah – things turned to sex.

England leaned forward and kissed him passionately; Romano laced his fingers into the still-messy blond hair and pulled him closer.

Not like a curse. Like magic.

…

_The anagram was "London Man Rage."_

_Special request from Skadiyoko._


	109. Prussia and China

**Prussia/China.**

"Sit down on that chair," England barked, poking Prussia in the ass with his cutlass.

"Ow. Stop that."

_"Sit!_" The pirate nation goaded the albino into sitting in the chair by smacking him repeatedly with the cutlass. Prussia's clothing was torn and his mouth was bleeding a little from the lashing he'd received at England's hands; he was weakened, and could not fight back against the six strong men that held him and China captive. He sat.

"Good. You," England snapped, pointing at China, "sit on his lap."

"I'm not going to sit on his lap-aru!"

"Oh, yes, you are," the blond growled, and one of the pirates thrust China forward. "We only have one chair."

China, whose embroidered silk jacket had been flayed to ribbons by England's whip, snarled at him and straddled Prussia's lap, avoiding his crimson eyes.

"Tie them up," England told his men, who did. "Now leave them. We can deal with them when we reach the river's mouth." The Englishmen all left the cabin.

Prussia groaned a little. "This chair hurts me," he said to China. "Can you get free from your ropes?"

China tried wiggling a little. "I don't think so-aru. Hold on." He squirmed a little more. "It hurts me too; my legs are tied too tightly-aru."

Prussia let out another little groan and his gaze moved to the floor.

"Are you all right-aru?"

"Nh. You – the ropes – " Prussia was a bit too weak to talk much. He leaned his head back against the back of the chair. "Wait. Let me try something."

For several moments Prussia wiggled his wrists where they were tied behind the chair, letting out little grunts of concentration. China kept fidgeting as well.

"Will you sit still?" the albino finally breathed out. "I can't concentrate. I think I can get out of these ropes if I could focus better."

"I, I can't help it," China confessed. "I really, uh, I like sitting on laps-aru. A _lot_." He blushed and averted his gaze.

Experimentally, with one eyebrow raised, Prussia shifted his ass on the chair, and China let out a little moan, squirming on his lap without looking up. "I'm beginning to like you sitting on laps, too," Prussia grinned.

China's deep brown eyes met his, and they shared a soft smile. "We may die in this smelly cabin, though," he pointed out. "If you can't get free-aru."

"Mm, but then, shouldn't we wring the last drop of enjoyment from our lives before we go?"

"Your mouth is bleeding-aru," China responded, and leaned forward to lick the blood from the corner of the wide, grinning mouth.

When Prussia felt those lips against his own he slicked his tongue against them; China moaned. "Get these ropes off us-aru."

"I'm trying! This chair is really hurting my ass."

"It's not doing me any favors, either," China snarled.

"Stop kissing a minute. Let me focus."

"Fine." China stopped kissing, but he kept wriggling; Prussia was getting more and more frantic. He rubbed the wrist rope against the back of the chair leg and after what seemed like forever, it broke.

"Aha! My wrists are free," he laughed, bringing his hands around between them and sliding them slowly around China's bared waist.

The elder nation leaned forward and kissed him again. "This is a bit like bondage-aru. I – like it."

"Mm, I agree, it's awesome," Prussia replied. "But we should untie you so that when England comes back we're not sitting ducks."

"All right. Untie me-aru."

Prussia made short work of the ropes binding China, who kept squirming and licking his lips while he worked. When they were both free of the ropes, China leaned forward, wrapping his arms around the albino, and began to kiss him again. "Ah, China, you are delicious! Kesesese!"

"Shh! Keep it down."

"Yes, all right," Prussia whispered. He stood up, lifting China with him; the dark-haired nation wrapped his legs around Prussia's waist, and they began kissing again.

"Oh, the hell with all this kissing." Prussia dumped China on the floor. "Take the pants off." He began stripping off his own torn clothing.

China apparently had been thinking the same thing and ripped off his embroidered trousers. "This is a really bad place to make love-aru."

"It's all we've got, babe." Naked, Prussia lay down and reached for China, who eagerly joined him.

"If only I didn't hurt so much from that stupid chair-aru."

"Don't worry about it. I promise I can make you forget all about it." Prussia's aching fingers trailed up and down China's soft skin, like silk, and soon all pain was forgotten as they surrendered to pleasure.

When they were both sated, China looked over Prussia's body with a critical eye. "You're quite bruised-aru."

"So are you. Do you feel all right? Should we try to climb out of the porthole?" Prussia gestured towards the small porthole with his chin, while cuddling China close.

"Not yet. I still hurt so much-aru. Let's rest a little while, here in each other's arms." China gave Prussia a brilliant smile, and despite the dark circles of exhaustion, the bruises on his face, at that moment the dark-haired nation was the most beautiful being Prussia had ever seen. He kissed China one more time and they snuggled up together to relax.

…

"Bloody hell!" The island nation was furious, and his voice woke up both China and Prussia, who began to panic. "Throw them overboard," England said dismissively. "Naked." He walked out of the cabin; the strong crew members picked up the struggling lovers and took them topside to fling them over the railing.

"Aah!" China yelled on the way down.

Prussia continued to struggle, but could not overcome; he too was tossed into the water. It was quite warm. He swam to China and grabbed him; together they managed to weakly tread water and watch England's ship sail away from the mouth of the Amazon River. "You're a bastard, England!" Prussia yelled, and saw a pale hand waving dismissively from the deck.

China kissed him. "Don't worry about him. We're free now. Come, let's swim to shore and figure out what to do-aru."

Prussia gave a lazy smile. "Let's swim to shore and make love again."

"All right." Laughing despite the straitened circumstances, China let go of the albino and began to swim towards shore, which was not really that far away. Prussia followed.

"No!" Prussia suddenly yelled.

"What's the matter?" China stopped to wait for him.

"This is the Amazon river, right? There are _piranhas_ in there! I don't want to get bitten by a piranha, while I'm naked! Not awesome at all!"

"Oh, stop grumbling-aru. There are no – aieeee!" China kicked out and began swimming in panic towards the shore. "There is a piranha! Swim, Prussia, swim-aru!"

The two nations reached the shore in record time and pulled themselves onto dry land, panting and panicking. "That was a close one," the albino muttered.

"I cuss piranha! Go away, you devil fish-aru!"

…

_I recently discovered that anagramming "Prussia" gets you "piss-aru," so that of course led to Prussia/China._

_The anagram was "Chair Pains Us," but also "I Cuss Piranha."_

_Ayumi Kudou, I'll get to your China/Italy one next time, okay? And I forgot about your Italy/America one, too. I'll put them on the list._


	110. Italy and America

**Italy/America.**

"Ve, America, I'm so glad you came over to cook pasta with me tonight. I have so many good recipes!" Veneziano leaped into the air with glee.

America, standing in his living room, scratched his head. "Well, I hope we can make something good. I brought some really exotic things to cook."

"What did you bring, ve? I got some calamari, which is always good with pasta."

"Calamari? Is that some kind of wine?"

"No, America, ve. Calamari is squid."

"_Squid?_" The hero felt a little queasy at that. But he would deal with it. "I've never actually eaten squid before."

"Well, tonight is your chance to try it. What did you bring, ve, that is so exotic?"

"Uh. You know my brother? Canada?"

Veneziano nodded slowly. Like he didn't remember Mattie. Ah, nobody ever remembered Canada; sometimes even America forgot about him. But not tonight! "He gave me some – ah – well, do you know what jerky is?"

"Dried meat strips, right, ve? I'm not sure that will go so well with pasta." He took the bags America had brought and peered into them, frowning.

"Uh. Yeah. Well, he gave me – uh – do you know what Sasquatch is?"

Veneziano tilted his head. "No. I don't believe I've ever heard that word, ve."

"Sasquatch is – Bigfoot."

"Oh! I know about Bigfoot. Russia talks about him all the time, but he calls him _Snezhnyj chelovek._"

America blinked. That was pretty advanced for Italy. "Uh, well, maybe. I don't know what Russia calls him. Anyway, the real word for Bigfoot is, well, he's a yeti, and since there are a lot of yetis in Canada, my brother gave me some d-dried yeti meat."

There was a deep, embarrassed silence.

"V-ve, isn't a yeti like a big person? Your brother kills yeti and makes a meal out of them? He sounds very bloodthirsty, even worse than Russia." Veneziano backed nervously away until he reached the wall.

"I- I'm not actually sure this is real yeti m-meat," America stammered. "Canada is definitely not bloodthirsty. But he does have a good sense of humor. This might be bison meat, or moose. And I'm also not really sure whether a yeti is a person or what."

The silence descended again. "We'd better have a look at this stuff," Veneziano finally decided. "Which bag is it in, ve?"

"The yeti jerky is in the polymer jar," America boasted, buffing his nails on his shirt. That jar was perfect, and nobody could tell him otherwise, now. Japan had confirmed at the last world meeting that all the polymer jars he'd sent had survived a hundred-foot drop from a crane. He laughed a little, remembering Iggy's face at that announcement.

"That's a lot of jerky meat, ve. Well, come out to the kitchen," Veneziano said, still somewhat nervously. "We can figure out what to do with it there."

…

The pasta was on the stove, gently cooking, and the calamari had been prepared to Veneziano's satisfaction, but he still wasn't sure about this dried meat. Dried meat! No matter what kind of meat it was, that was very bizarre for a pasta dinner. He was glad Germany wasn't here to see this. Or Romano. Ve, Romano would kick America right back to his own country, if he heard the blond had brought dried meat for dinner! Veneziano shuddered.

"America, will you open the wine?" he asked, to take his mind off that image. He gestured to where the bottle sat on the counter.

"Mmf, mmf, uh-huh," America said, swallowing something hastily. "Uh, sure." He reached for the wine and a corkscrew.

"Ve! What are you eating already? You'll spoil your appetite!"

"I, uh," he swallowed again, "was just testing out the yeti meat."

"Urgh, America, that still sounds so disgusting, ve. Please. I really do not want to eat it or even think about it."

"Well, I wanted to test it! To see if I could tell what kind of meat it was."

"And?" Veneziano almost didn't want to know the answer.

"I can't tell." America pouted. "You'd think if it was yeti meat, it would be really tough, since they're sort of wild animals."

"America, stop, ve!" Veneziano covered his ears. "This whole discussion is making me a little queasy."

"S-sorry," America replied, finally managing to get the cork out of the bottle. "It wasn't very tasty, either."

"Throw it outside. I don't even want it in my house."

"Aw, no. I'll just put the jar with my things, and give it back to Canada when I get home. But I do intend to find out just what it actually was. Normally I can deal with mystery meat, but this – I have no idea! Oh, I know. Let me send him a quick text. Maybe he can let me know tonight." He whipped out his cell phone and sent his brother a text. "There."

America then poured some white wine for the two of them, and while Veneziano delicately sipped his, the blond gulped down the whole glass.

"Ve, you need some culture lessons, America."

"Oh. No. Normally I don't drink like that. It was just to get the taste out of my mouth. Sorry." He poured himself another glass and sat at the table, which Veneziano had already set before the blond's arrival. "Is there anything else I can do to help?"

"Nope! All done, ve." Veneziano began scooping out pasta onto plates, topping them with the delicate calamari in garlic sauce.

"Mm, smells delicious. I'm glad I came over to cook tonight! There was nothing going on at home, and you're always such an awesome cook. Thanks for inviting me."

"Not a problem, ve!" Veneziano felt much more cheerful now that the dubious topic of yeti meat had been dismissed. "Come and sit." He brought the plates to the table and they sat to eat.

"This is delicious! This is squid, you say?" America peered at the plate. "Who would have guessed? I really like it!" He scooped up some more to eat.

Just then his cell phone beeped. "Ve, from your brother?"

"Yeah. Hold on. Let's see what kind of weird meat he foisted on us." America checked the cell phone. "Oh, no way, Mattie!"

"What? What does he say?"

"It's dried squid meat!"

…

_Sorry, Ayumi Kudou. Goldfish-brain finished the whole chapter before remembering you wanted them watching a horror movie together. I'll try to do better next time. _

_The anagram was "Yeti Calamari." I guess that could be a good horror movie theme as well._


	111. America and North Italy II

**America/North Italy.**

"Well, now that dinner's over, should we watch our movie, ve?" Veneziano and America carried used plates and wine glasses to the sink to be washed; America went back for the cutlery. The Italian rolled up his sleeves and got the water going, beginning to wash them carefully.

"I'm a little nervous about this movie," America confessed. "It's a new one – a scary movie, and I can't watch them alone, you know I just can't do it." He shook his head decisively. "I'm glad we can watch it together. Do you need me to do anything here?"

"Ve, just dry the dishes." He gestured towards a dishcloth with his chin; America picked it up and waited for some clean dishes to dry. "But you know, I'm kind of cowardly, too, ve." Veneziano had opened his eyes wide to look at the blond.

"But dude, you're only cowardly in real life. Not from movies and things." Whoops. That might not have been very heroic to say.

"You really do need culture lessons, America. Didn't England teach you anything when you were little, ve?"

"I – I don't want to talk about England and horror movies in the same discussion." America began to squirm. Just thinking of it made memories of "An American Werewolf in London" float to the surface of his brain, and now he knew he'd have nightmares tonight. Shit. Maybe he could stay over and North Italy could help him keep the nightmares at bay?

"Ve, well, bring the movie to the living room," Veneziano sighed.

When they got there, he turned on the television and took the DVD from America's quaking fingers. "W-will you sit next to me, man? In case I need to grab onto you?"

"Is this movie really likely to be that scary?" Veneziano examined the case. "They normally aren't, you know, ve. More stupid than scary."

"No, no, no," America moaned. "Sit with me! Please!"

"Ve, all right. Sit on the big sofa." He put the DVD in the player and then dimmed the room's lights before coming to sit next to the blond.

For the next two hours the nations sat and watched the "horror" movie. America continually squealed and hid his face against Veneziano's shoulder, darting little peeks at the TV before squeezing the shorter man painfully.

"America, ve, first of all, this is only a movie, and second of all, you're hurting me!"

"But – but look! There's a yeti hiding behind the trees. Oh, man, oh, man," America moaned, "it's like some kind of death theme. Evil stalking yetis. I'm going to have such bad _nightmares~,_" he sang out, pressing his face against a pillow, shaking his head from side to side. "Nuts."

"Evil stalking yetis," Veneziano snorted. "Ve. You need to get a grip. I thought you were so heroic?" He poked the cringing nation in the shoulder, and America jumped.

"I'm really glad that wasn't yeti meat in the polymer jar," he moaned. "Really glad. I don't want these evil yetis coming after me or Mattie!"

"Just stop it, please, and watch the movie, ve."

So they stopped talking, and watched the movie.

At one point the group of terrorized teenagers in the film managed to brain the shadowy yeti with a frying pan; the yeti crumpled to the forest floor. "Whew," America breathed. "Now I can finally relax."

"Are you nuts, ve? The movie's not even half over! The yeti wasn't the killer!"

America looked at him in astonishment. "You – you – you're absolutely right. Damn!" He hugged the pillow again, blue eyes wide and peeking over the top. His teeth were chattering and he bit his tongue to try to stop it. "Ow."

"Oh, America, ve, I'm never going to invite you over again if you can't stop all this nonsense. Anybody could see how fake this movie is."

"No, no, no," America moaned. Maybe he shouldn't ask to sleep over tonight. Veneziano sounded pretty pissed off. But that meant he'd need to head home _alone!_ In the _dark!_ Oh, damn it all. Why had he had this stupid idea anyway?

On screen, another scantily-clad girl died, and America closed his eyes.

…

By the time the movie ended, Veneziano's eyes hurt from the constant eye-rolling, and America was a gibbering bundle of nerves. "Ve, America," the Italian teased, "are you going to be safe getting home?" It would almost be worth following the blond just to watch him freak out!

"Oh, man…" But America got a grip on himself. "Ahem. Yes. I will be manly, and I will do it." He shook his host's hand firmly and together they packed up the things the blond had brought, including the polymer jar full of squid jerky, which he put into the shopping bag to carry home more easily, and the DVD. "But wow, that was one weird movie. I'm hoping I do not have nightmares tonight."

"You can do it, America," Veneziano said, patting him cheerfully on the shoulder. "Just be careful and remember that was only fiction, all right? Just a movie, ve."

"I know. I mean, I always know, but it's just so scary sometimes. One time at a world meeting there was a ghost in my hotel room!"

"Ve," Veneziano said dismissively. His fratello had told him about that one.*

Together they walked to the front door. When America opened it, there was a tall, shadowy figure on the dark porch. "Aah!" the hero yelled, swinging the shopping bag and hitting the creature in the skull. It fell to the floor silently. "Did I kill it? Are we safe?"

Veneziano, clutching his guest's arm, turned on his porch light so they could look at the evil stalking thing. "_Oh!_ Germany, Germany, ve! Are you all right?"

…

_The anagram was "Cranial Harm to Yeti."_

_*The "ghost in America's hotel room" is from Skirmish Brothers, chapter 38. _


	112. Germany and America

_First of all, I can't believe I haven't anagrammed these two together before. Second of all, we are slipping back into the "tiara universe" for this one. I wanted to make it right after Veneziano and America tenderly (and fearfully) carried the unconscious Germany to a sofa, but the anagrams didn't work out right._

…

**Germany/America.**

"Ludwig! Will you get in here?" Alfred barked, pacing around his large study. Investigating his standing army's monthly reports, he'd been appalled at the expenditures for this month. Ludwig was his quartermaster, and responsible for all this. Why had he gone overboard?

The standing army comprised twenty men, locals who lived at home with their families, but who trained daily in case of invasion. Alfred needed to protect what was his, though the army hadn't truly been needed for years.

The tall German, dressed as always in his uniform, stepped in with military precision. "Sir?"

"Beilschmidt," Alfred snarled, to let Ludwig know he was in trouble, "why are the food expenditures so high? I find it very hard to believe that all of a sudden my entire standing army has developed some kind of nutritional problem where they all need exotic food like squid and sea urchin! What's going on here?" He stopped pacing and glared right at the quartermaster. "I'm not made of money, you know!" This despite the fact that he easily earned far more each month than he could ever spend. Some said this was the reason Feliciano wanted to marry him. Alfred always dismissed those comments. He knew the truth.

"There has been no increase in expenditure, to the best of my knowledge. Squid and sea urchin, you say?"

Ludwig seemed genuinely puzzled, so Alfred waved him over to the desk. "Those were just – just figures of speech," he admitted, "but the monthly invoices indicate that we spent almost triple, this month, on food!" He pulled out a few invoices – they were not itemized – and handed them to Ludwig. "This is from our usual supplier, yes?"

"Hmm, yes. I do not understand the discrepancy. The men have been getting their usual allotment, nothing more, as far as I know. Allow me to speak with the supplier. Perhaps someone there has been confusing the invoices. This should all be straightened out soon, sir." Ludwig took the bill and folded it, putting it into a jacket pocket, before stepping back and saluting smartly. "I'll be back this afternoon to report."

"Good. Don't forget that Feliciano and I have a date tonight, so be here before four o'clock."

Did Ludwig narrow his eyes at that? Hmm. Alfred grinned and shooed him out the door.

…

At three-thirty the German returned. "Sir, I have some disturbing information from the supplier." He stood at attention, his legs spread slightly, arms clasped behind his back, and stared up at the wall.

Alfred had been sitting at his desk drinking iced coffee, daydreaming about the date tonight – it would be their last date before the wedding, and he'd planned a very fun time, riding horses on the beach, picnicking by moonlight, and maybe even – _ah_ –

Oh. Right. He needed to attend to this. "What are you talking about?"

"Despite my express orders that all supply orders must come to him on a form signed by me in triplicate," Ludwig stated, "the food supplier has taken a verbal request from someone to supply steak and, indeed, squid, to the men in their homes."

"_What?_ First of all, who the hell would dare to do that? And second of all, who the hell would care? The men have never complained, have they? No, they haven't," the landowner stated, answering his own question. "So the supplier has been delivering these exotic foods to the men of my army? That's absurd!"

"Not absurd, sir. The – the reason the supplier gave is that he – he and his staff assumed you were feeling generous due to your upcoming nuptials. They looked on it as a celebration, you sharing the largesse with your people." Ludwig turned bright red, Alfred was amused to see.

"Hah. Well, that's actually not a bad idea; I mean, I am pretty happy and excited, but – money is money! Who ordered this 'largesse' to be delivered?"

Ludwig cleared his throat.

"Well? Out with it, man. If the men are sneaking around behind my back and yours, worming extra supplies out of people, it redounds badly on both of us."

"It – it wasn't one of the men, sir."

Alfred leaned back in his big brown leather chair, toying with a pencil. "You have completely lost me, Beilschmidt. Why would anyone else care to do such a thing?" Hmm, unless it was Bonnefoy, who owned the adjoining lands; Bonnefoy was always trying to discredit him, and it would be just like that sneaky Frenchman to undermine Alfred's authority this way. Attributing it to wedding joy! Totally a Bonnefoy ploy. "It was Bonnefoy, wasn't it?" he growled. "I'll get him for this."

"What? No, sir, it was not Monsieur Bonnefoy." But Ludwig did not continue.

"Are you going to stand there all day and make me guess? I warn you, if you do, I'll demote you." This idea sounded sensible. "I may demote you anyway," he nodded. "This is a total fiasco. Now tell me who was ordering the exotic foods for the men."

"Are you sure?" Ludwig asked hesitantly, finally meeting his eyes.

"Yes, I'm sure! Tell me." He punched the desk.

"It – it was Feliciano," the German muttered.

"_What?_" was again Alfred's initial reaction. Then he got a grip on himself. Feliciano was sneaking around behind his back, having sea urchin and squid delivered to the men of the army? Oh, the Italian had such a generous heart.

But no! The Italian was being generous with his, Alfred's, money! That would be fine once they were married, but it was a bit pushy to try this beforehand, without asking about it first. He sat with his head in his hand, elbow on the desk, thinking this over.

Ludwig continued to stand at attention.

"Well, first of all," Alfred finally said, checking the clock, "I'll pay this bill and speak to Feliciano about this sort of thing tonight." He refused to speak badly of his fiancé in front of the hired help, even if Ludwig was his right-hand man. "Second of all, I think I will demote you."

"Sir? This had nothing to do with me." Ludwig turned in consternation.

"On the contrary. You did not sufficiently hammer home your authority – my authority – with the supplier; he clearly felt that he could take orders from Feliciano and get away with it. From now on I am promoting Von Bock to quartermaster, and you will report to him. You will only oversee the supply of one product: rice. It will be difficult for you to go wrong, with that."

"Sir?" Ludwig still looked baffled.

"Get out, tell Von Bock to attend me in the morning. I have things to do." Didn't he just. Feliciano was going to hear about this. His best man, reduced to a _rice manager!_ Alfred stood and gestured Ludwig out of the room before him, locking it as he exited. Damn.

…

_The anagram was "Army Rice Manager."_

_Requests are beginning to get a little too involved. From now on, I'll accept requests for the pairing or group, but no plot requests. Thank you for reading._

_Von Bock is Estonia._


	113. Italy and Germany

**Italy/Germany.**

"Oh, ohh…" Germany moaned as America helped him inside to lie on Veneziano's couch. "What happened? Italy? Italy?"

"Ve, I'm right here, Germany." Veneziano took his hand and helped him to lay back. "America, will you go get some ice from the freezer? There are plastic bags in the drawer next to the refrigerator."

"Yeah, of course, man." America scurried away.

Germany, still a bit dazed, watched him go, holding a hand to his throbbing head, wondering what the hero was doing here. As far as he knew, America and North Italy never spent time together. Well, he'd never find out if he didn't ask. "What is America doing here with you? What happened to me?" He rubbed his head some more. "Tonight was supposed to be our special night. Didn't you remember? I waited for hours, but you never showed up."

"Ve? What special – _aah!_ Oh, Germany, I am so terribly sorry! So terribly, terribly sorry, ve!" Italy began to sob wildly, covering his face with his hands.

America came running back into the room with a Ziploc full of ice. "What's the matter? Is he hurt?" he asked Germany, staring at Veneziano.

"He is not hurt – _yet_." Germany reached out and took the plastic bag from the blond's hands while Italy continued to cry, shaking his head back and forth, making the hair curl wave wildly. "He and I always get together on this date to celebrate the first time we ever – ever – the first time we ever met," Germany concluded. That was a bit of a lie. It was to celebrate the first time they'd ever made love. They always met on this date, no matter what was happening in their countries, and had a full night of lovemaking to celebrate that first beautiful union. Sometimes it was sweet, and sometimes rough; Germany actually found it very amusing when Italy dominated him, and he allowed his younger friend to do that from time to time. Yes, even if his nation duties were freakishly busy, Germany always loved that one night of scheduled mating each year…

…and tonight he'd come over and found Veneziano cozy with _America_? He needed to get to the bottom of this. His head hurt, and he was irritated with Italy, and not in the mood for fooling around at all. Frankly, he wasn't in the mood for socializing, either. "Why are you here, America?" Maybe he could get a better answer from the heroic nation, since Italy was still bawling like a baby. A very loud baby.

"Veneziano invited me over for dinner, since he had nothing to do."

If Germany had the strength, he'd crack his knuckles maliciously at that nonchalant phrase, but his head was throbbing so much that he didn't dare. "That's – _interesting_."

Italy must have understood the threat underlying that comment, because his wails became louder. "Oh, Germany, ve, Germany!"

"Stop crying, Italy." Germany nudged the half-nation with his foot, but it didn't help.

"Why are _you_ here?" America asked. "I mean, I know you guys are friends, but do you always just drop by unannounced?"

"Unannounced?" Then Germany took a deep breath. "America, why am I lying on the couch with an ice pack?"

"Oh, Germany, ve, Germany!"

"Uh. I hit you in the head with my jar full of squid. Sorry, dude. You should be all right soon."

Germany boggled. Did he really want to ask? Well, he had to at least find out why America had hit him. He asked that question.

"I thought you were a _yeti!_" America now moaned, apparently in the grip of some trauma. He started biting his nails and his terrified blue eyes met Germany's from behind the lenses of his glasses.

The hurt nation sighed. "I'm not even going to ask. Italy," he said, poking Veneziano with his foot, "are you ever going to shut up? Do I have to leave?"

"Veeeee! Don't leave me, Germany, don't! I – I don't want the scary yetis to get me!"

America turned to look at him in amazement. "Dude, you weren't even scared of them before! What's the matter with you now?" America himself seemed much less anxious than he had a few minutes ago. Germany watched him, and thought he was returning to his heroic nature.

Italy, on the other hand, had degenerated into the dribbling crybaby he so frequently was. Germany sighed. "I'm going to leave." America stood up straight and extended a hand to help Germany off the couch. His head still hurt from the bump with the jar, but Italy's wails weren't helping. "Call me when you are ready to talk, Italy."

"Oh, ve, Germany," Italy sobbed, "will you ever forgive me? It was such a bad idea to invite America tonight!"

"Hey!"

Veneziano went on, oblivious to his guest's anger. "He scared me with all this talk of evil stalking yetis, and he brought dried meat to a nice pasta meal, and gulped his wine, and then we had to watch a scary movie! Oh, Germany, please don't be mad at me, please! Please stay and help me calm down!" He raised his tear-tracked face to his blond guests. America was staring at him in astonishment, but Germany was used to this sort of thing.

"If America is leaving, then I will stay," he sighed. At least he could get Italy to calm down if they were alone, whether they managed to celebrate tonight or not.

"Yeah, I'll leave, man. Tonight wasn't such a good night."

Veneziano threw himself at Germany with an inarticulate cry. "Ve~!" Resigned, Germany put his arms around the smaller man and held him protectively.

"Hah," America said in disbelief. "Fuck the yetis, bro. I'm heading home." He shook his head and picked up the shopping bag, hearing a strange noise from inside it. "What the hell?"

He opened the bag and both he and Germany peeked inside. "Damn it!" America yelled. "How did that polymer jar _break_?"

…

_Wow. This particular combination gives me several good anagrams. Look for more in the upcoming chapters._

_The anagram was "Yearly Mating."_


	114. Norway and Iceland

_For Orithyea. _

…

**Norway/Iceland.**

Norway rang the doorbell of Iceland's house. He was warmly dressed in his fur overcoat and hat, and was looking forward to a comfortable evening with his little brother. He wondered whether Iceland would be able to call him "big brother" tonight. Sometimes it was difficult for him to admit it.

"Hello, Norway!" Iceland seemed in a very good mood, not as nervous as usual. Maybe he'd been drinking? "Come in! I have something new to show you." He stepped back and held the door open for his guest.

"Acid-washed jeans?" Norway asked, coming into Iceland's house.*

"What? Oh, no. We still produce them, but it's not so much of a fad anymore." He closed the front door and locked it securely. "No, no, come into the kitchen. It's delicious! You'll love it." A happy Iceland led the way towards his spacious kitchen, well-lit by an array of subtle LED lights.

Norway followed, slightly intrigued. He always liked to try delicious new things. "Place is looking nice," he said absently.

"Thank you. I've been renovating recently. Though I'm a bit worried, because of all the glacial melting. The lakes and rivers have been rising, and we fear that our cities may eventually flood. I'm wondering whether I should just stop the renovations. I wouldn't want my home to be destroyed in a flood."

"That would not be good."

"No."

They'd reached the kitchen and Iceland pulled out a chair for him. He removed his hat and put it on the table, then shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the back of a chair. "What is the surprise?"

"Sit tight. It's a new kind of wine!" Iceland moved to a sturdy wooden cabinet to fetch two big stoneware mugs, and then pulled a big (_big!_) bottle out of the refrigerator. "Hold on while I get the lid off. This is the latest vintage, and we have very high hopes for marketing it as a worldwide contender for high-class wines." Iceland beamed at his guest as he unscrewed the top of the wine bottle. It seemed a little difficult for him to open, but Norway didn't offer to help. He knew Iceland was proud to be showing off his new wine, and didn't want to steal his thunder. But – a _screw-top?_ For a world-class wine? Norway now had his doubts.

He raised an eyebrow but said nothing until the wine was in the chilled mug and the mug was in his hand. "Skal," he said weakly, peering into the mug. "What variety is it?"

"Skal! I'm not going to tell you yet, not until you try it. Go on!" Iceland downed his entire mugful in one go, grinning and watching Norway. Maybe it really was delicious. He hadn't seen Iceland drink so eagerly in a long time.

Norway put his lips to the mug and wet them – just barely – before committing to a drink of this mysterious wine. He licked his lips; it tasted all right.

So he sipped.

And then he sipped again. This was – well, it wasn't world-class wine, but it was a lot better than he'd feared. He now wondered how a non-agricultural nation like Iceland could grow grapes suitable for winemaking.

"Well?" Iceland asked excitedly. "Do you like it?"

"It is – not bad," the mainlander admitted. "I do not know if I would give it an award, but it is certainly tasty enough." He sniffed it again. It was a very dry wine with an unusual scent. "Please enlighten me about its origins. Where are you growing the grapes? Or are you importing the juices and making wine from them?"

"That's the very exciting part. We have been branching out into unusual food experiments, and we have managed to make this wine from _Brassica napus._"

Norway's brow furrowed as he tried to work out the Latin name. "You – you mean rapeseed?"

"That's not quite right. This is from the genetically-modified version produced in Canada and the United States. It's called canola."

"That is an _oil_, little brother! You're making wine from oil?" Norway was speechless, and Iceland mistook this for pride.

"Yes! We're happily making this delicious dry canola wine here from the canola we import from the US. America has been quite helpful in this regard."

"I'm not surprised. He stands to make a bundle, if this takes off." Norway peered into the mug again. "But, you know, the EU is strongly against genetically-modified plants for consumption. If you start importing canola from America your EU membership application might be denied."

When he glanced at his host – after a few more sips of the wine that was beginning to grow on him – Iceland was red-faced and nearly in tears. "Oh, Norway! I hadn't even considered that!" He plunked his empty mug down on the table. "I hadn't considered that at all. I – I suppose we'll have to stop the production of this wine."

"Well, if you could grow rapeseed crops here, that would not violate the EU's strictures?" Norway, having finished his mugful of the bizarre wine, tried to think of a way to help his panicked little brother.

"No, no. I – I think we will have to abandon the production of canola-based wines. It will just be safer all around."

"If you're certain?" Norway put his mug on the table.

"I'm certain. Well, I don't mind telling you that it won't be any hardship to me. I've been drinking this canola wine for a month now, and frankly, it's disgusting." Iceland picked up Norway's mug and his eyes widened dramatically. "Big brother! You drank it _all_? But I poured you a whole mugful!"

"So?" the now-irritable Norway answered. "You drank a whole mugful, too."

"N-no," Iceland confessed. "This stuff makes me gag, so I only put about thirty milliliters into the mug. You were very brave to drink all that greasy wine."

"Excuse me, Iceland," Norway tried to say politely, with a hand over his mouth, "but I need to get to the bathroom!"

…

_The anagram was "Dry Canola Wine."_

_Acid-washed jeans is from Skirmish Brothers, chapter 15. Yeah, I cross-reference a lot. _

_I'm learning a lot about the world, thanks to Hetalia. Iceland is indeed angling for EU membership, and the EU is very strongly against genetically-modified organisms. And Iceland is losing a lot of land to flooding caused by melting glaciers._

_30 ml = one ounce, for us Americans._


	115. Skirmish Brothers and England

_Can't believe I never did these guys together, either._

…

**Skirmish Brothers/England.**

"Come on, gits, it's dark enough now." England stepped forward towards the shore, glancing back towards his friends. It was a beautiful clear night, just a little chilly, but they were properly attired and wouldn't suffer from the cold.

Prussia hopped up and down in his excitement. "Kesesese! Got all your gear on, Romano? Den?" He pirouetted on the sand; Romano watched him make swirly footprints as he danced.

"Yes, I'm ready. Do you think I need anti-fog?" Denmark scanned the area in front of him before putting on his mask.

"No, you should be all right. I hope." The albino patted him on the shoulder. "Come on; even if it does fog up, you can fix it with spit."

Dammit. "Bastards, this is about the weirdest thing we've ever done. Though it does sound kind of fun. Different, anyway." He followed Prussia towards the water.

England took Romano's hand. "Don't worry. I'll keep you safe."

"Cheh. Shut up and let's go, stupid." He yanked his hand free of the blond's.

"You know," Prussia said, as they stepped into the water, "midnight is really the coolest time for this. I mean, we're so awesome; we could easily do it any time of day at all, but I like this sneaky midnight type of thing."

Denmark agreed. "The best part is that _we are so awesome!_" he yelled, tilting his head back and grinning at the sky, brilliant with stars.

"Shh! Shh!" Romano cautioned. "Come on, bastards, we may be awesome, but we need to be quiet."

"Bullshit. Calm down," Den told him, "and be awesome. We know you are. Just relax and let your inner Prussia out."

"_Chigi!" _Romano's yell was almost as loud as Denmark's had been. "I'm – I'm way more awesome than the albino potato," he said forcefully, when the echoes had died down.

England nodded in resignation. "Yes, wanker, we know, we know."

"But Arthur is the most badass of us all! Kesesese!"

"All right," Romano told them in a snappish tone. "We're all awesome, we're all badass, England is especially badass, it's midnight, and we're ready to go. _Are_ we ready to go?" He adjusted his face mask and snorkel.

"I'm ready." England stepped forward and struck an unusual heroic pose. "I was born ready!" he yelled.

"Dammit, you bastards are all so loud and rude."

"Get into the spirit of things," Denmark said. "Put your snorkel in your mouth and let's slip into the water."

Romano was still a little worried about this nocturnal raid. "You're sure we won't get in trouble?"

"Nah, damn it, shut up and let's just go!" Prussia put his mask on and made funny faces at his friends from behind the glass.

"Right, well, all right, then, let's go. I just hope we don't get caught."

"Who the hell's going to care? _Sweden?_"

"Bastard, you know Sweden's just waiting to lecture you about something. It'd be just like him to be paying attention to this. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"Ah, forget it. I can deal with Sweden, if he interrupts."

"If you say so." The brunet was doubtful.

"Sweden is _not a problem!_" Prussia roared, arms spread wide; Romano just rolled his eyes.

Each of them adjusted his face mask for the most watertight seal. Then Romano took his snorkel out of his mouth again to demand, "Just what the hell are we planning to see? It's _dark_, you idiots!"

England ripped the snorkel out of his mouth to respond. "Oh, stop bellyaching, git. Denmark has an underwater flashlight. Waterproof."

"Fine. Just – just _fine._" He followed the albino potato into the water, trying to be stealthy.

But Prussia and Denmark had other ideas. "Woohoo!" Prussia yelled, splashing his way in.

"All right! Let's _do this_!" Denmark answered him with a mighty Viking bellow.

England followed more sedately, but still seeming somewhat cocky for this secret underwater mission. "Come on, Romano, quit dawdling!" He held out a hand, and when the half-nation took it, England pulled him into the water, whooping and hollering, so hard that Romano almost fell over.

"Bastard, stop!" he shouted. "I'm going to fall in!"

"Kesesese! We're here to get wet, you goof. Get in the water, and don't worry about falling!" Prussia pushed him and he fell to his knees in the water.

Dammit. But he adjusted his mask again and followed Denmark, who had turned on his waterproof flashlight. "What the hell are we looking for, anyway?"

"Sharks," Prussia laughed loudly.

"_Sharks?_"

The albino laughed again. "Ah, don't be silly, Romano, don't worry about sharks. I was just teasing. We're looking for some sunken treasure."

"How the fuck would _you_ know about sunken treasure, you moron?" He poked Prussia in the back. "Especially up here!"

"Because when Arthur was a pirate, he raided one of my ships and sank it in the Kattegat. So Den is taking us snorkeling to look for it."

"This is pretty stupid, you know," Denmark pointed out. "I mean, snorkeling means we're stuck floating on top of the water. If we want to recover any sunken treasure, we'd need scuba gear."

England sighed. "How the hell did you wankers let this project get so far before realizing that?"

"Blame the albino potato!" Romano yelled, now extremely pissed off. All this sneaky nocturnal water shit for nothing? "Dammit. You can always blame the fucking albino potato for everything."

"Not true," Prussia said cheerfully. "I have to blame Arthur for sinking my ship in the first place, you know."

Romano, treading water, turned to England. "Bastard. I'll get you for this someday."

"I don't even care," England sighed. "Come on. Let's get out of these bloody wetsuits and go get drunk."

"Kesesese!"

"Damn it," Denmark said quietly, snapping off the flashlight. "What a waste of effort."

Suddenly a loud voice came from a megaphone on the opposite shore. "D'nm'rk? 'S th't you?"

…

_The anagram was "Brash Midnight Snorkelers."_


	116. Britain, Denmark, Romano and Prussia

_Remember when I said I wasn't going to stretch myself to find good anagrams? I lied. But this one's awesome. Best newspaper headline ever._

…

**Britain/Denmark/Romano/Prussia.**

"It's so nice out here in the sun," Prussia sighed. "This park is really nice. Thanks for inviting us, Arthur." The friends were lounging around a small English park in autumn, recapping all the adventures they'd had so far this year.

"No problem. Sorry it's such a little park, but at least it's quiet. Glad you brought us some good things to eat."

Denmark, lying back, stretched and yawned. "Mm. _Gravlaks_."

Romano threw a bread roll at Denmark; it bounced off his hat. "Bastard, that pickled fish is disgusting! Last time I ate it, I had nightmares. I'm never touching it again." *

"It's good with beer, though," Prussia said, swiping the last of the gravlaks from the plate and washing it down with some beer. "Isn't it? Yes, it is! This was the best gravlaks ever."

"You finished off my damn gravlaks?" Denmark sat up in anger. "You albino – _bastard_." He picked up the dirty bread roll and flung it at Prussia, who retaliated by tossing the dregs of his beer at Den's face.

"Kesesese! Your gravlaks was _yummy_, Den, positively yummy!"

A wet-faced, angry Denmark got up and advanced menacingly on Prussia, who leaped up and began to run. Den chased him, while the placid England and Romano watched.

"Bunch of bastards."

"You including me in that comment, git?"

"Why the hell not?" Romano smirked at him. "You have your bastard moments."

England flicked a piece of burnt scone at him. "Wanker."

"Not the scone!" Romano screeched, getting up and accidentally tripping over the picnic basket. He fell face-first onto England, who began to curse and try to shove him away.

"Bloody hell, Romano, get off me!" He gave one huge shove and launched Romano away from him; the half-nation landed on his ass a little way away.

"You're so fucking _pushy!_" Romano got up and stormed back to him, intent on destruction, but Denmark chased Prussia right in between the two feuding nations. "Dammit, you idiots, get out of my way!" Romano picked up the half-empty basket and threw it after them; of course it fell short, but when it hit the ground, it broke, showering cutlery, glassware, bits of basket and leftover food everywhere.

"Git! That was my best picnic basket!" England started chasing Romano around. Their shoes tore up the turf as they ran, yelling at each other. "I'm going to kill you when I get my hands on you, wanker!"

"Yeah, yeah," Romano jeered, more bravely than he felt. "Gotta catch me first! Remember, Italians are experts at retreating."

"I _know_," England snarled, arms outstretched.

Passing him, Prussia laughed, "Den, Den! Stop chasing me!"

"No way, you fucking gravlaks thief." Denmark lunged for him and grabbed him by the back of his uniform jacket; Prussia fell, and the Dane landed on top of him. They immediately began pummeling one another, wrestling in the dirt. Together they rolled into a small sapling and crushed it.

Meanwhile, Romano was running out of wind. He grabbed a branch from a tree and broke it off to use as a weapon against the still-irate England. "Get away," he wheezed.

"Forget it. You owe me a picnic basket, git." England dodged the tree branch and grabbed Romano around the waist, carrying him to the park's small pond. At least Romano had the presence of mind to drop the branch. Then he realized what England was up to.

"No! You bastard, you'd better not throw me in that – " Splash.

England stood laughing maniacally, arms akimbo, as Romano spluttered up out of the water, pushing the bedraggled hair curl out of his eyes.

"Hey, that looks like fun," Denmark said, abandoning his revenge and running over to leap into the pond, almost landing on the brunet.

"Dammit, Den, this isn't funny."

"Yes, it is. Hey, Teutonic Knights, come jump in the pond!" He waved madly at Prussia.

England stretched out his arms like a barrier to stop the albino. "_Don't_ jump in the bloody pond, Gilbert. This park is small and we don't want to ruin – " Splash.

"Kesesese! Wow, this is one muddy pond. My boots are sinking into the muck." Crimson eyes stared down at the dirty water, as if they could peer through the murk at his now-useless jackboots. He stomped up and down, making squelching sounds audible even to the others. "Damn. Going to have to get West to buy me a new pair of awesome boots." He bit his lip.

"Serves you right, stupid albino potato." Romano tried to wring out his hair and climb out of the pond at the same time, and he slipped, carving a deep groove into the soft earth at the side of the pond as he slid back into the water on his side. "Dammit all to hell!"

England sat on the bank, head in hands. "Bollocks. You know how much damage we've managed to do in the last ten minutes?"

"Not enough!" Denmark yelled cheerfully, leaping up out of the pond and digging his heels into the ground.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" England was red-faced and angry as he tried to stare Denmark down.

The Nordic nation reached down and ruffled his hair with a muddy hand. "Don't sweat it, England. It's just dirt."

The island nation leaped up and took an authoritative stance. "'Just dirt,' he says. _My_ dirt. My park! Everybody out of the fucking pond!" he bellowed. "Right now!"

Cowed, everyone got out of the fucking pond. Denmark helped Romano out, and the three wet friends stood sheepishly in front of England, staring at the damage with thinly-concealed grins.

Just as England was about to launch into a lecture, a policeman came up and took him by the arm. "Sorry, mate, you're under arrest."

"_Me?_"

…

_The anagram was "Badass Men Riot, Ruin a Minor Park." That's why I had to use "Britain" – I needed the 'b' to make "badass." _

_Romano's gravlaks-related nightmare was in Skirmish Brothers, ch. 33._


	117. Romano, England and Spain

_For Orithyea. This is a universe where Romano is not dating anyone._

…

**Romano/England/Spain.**

"Well, you two?" the crabby Italian said. "Stop fighting over me."

Spain turned to him with a sweet smile. "But Lovi. I don't want him to get his hands on you!"

England raised an impressive eyebrow. "And I don't understand why you'd want to be with this mush-brained git."

Romano sighed.

"Okay, Lovi, how about this? You choose! You choose which one of us will date you!" Spain beamed, as if this bit of foreign policy might solve all the world's problems.

"First I think we need to find a place to stay tonight," England pointed out. "We've been walking together all day, and it's getting late."

"Cheh, that's not a problem. There are a lot of quaint little places up ahead. Maybe a mile further."

"You're really familiar with this area?" England asked, as they all walked on.

Spain kept trying to take Romano's hand, but the brunet was not in the mood for that. He stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and trudged wearily onward. "Yeah. Even though it's my brother's neck of the woods."

"I suppose that makes sense," the island nation agreed. "I'm quite familiar with all the areas in my brothers' places, too."

This was news to Romano. "You mean America?"

"Er. Well, he's not technically my brother any more. No, I meant Scotland and the others."

Spain, not contributing to the conversation, slung an arm around Romano's shoulders; too tired to fight him off, the Italian kept walking.

"I didn't know you had any other brothers."

"Yeah. They're a bunch of wankers, and they don't get out much, but – they exist."

"Huh. You know, I've never even been to the UK yet." Romano noticed that England, despite the long day, was maintaining a calm demeanor, and hadn't called _him_ a git or a wanker yet! This was surprising. Whenever they were at meetings, it seemed like those were the only words out of the irate Brit's mouth. He turned – surreptitiously – to look at him as they walked, even as Spain pressed closer on the other side.

Yes, England was tired. Romano could see dark circles under his eyes, and as he watched, the blond yawned and then gave him a sheepish smile. "Sorry."

"No problem. I know we've all had a pretty long day. Not much further."

Spain yawned too. "I hope we can find a place to stay." He squeezed Romano's shoulders. "I hadn't realized how tired I was until Eyebrows said something."

"Wanker."

Romano almost laughed at that brief exchange. He leaned against Spain, feeling his warmth, smelling the sweet scent of tomatoes that surrounded him like a blanket. They walked on.

Soon the three nations came to the street that Romano had spoken of. There were indeed several little inns along the road. "Well, bastards? Where should we stay?"

"Er."

"Er what?" He looked at England, who was fiddling with the buttons on his uniform jacket. Spain was still hugging Romano and appraising the inns.

"Er, are we all sharing a room?" England blushed fiercely, visible even in the fading sunlight.

Oh. Romano felt himself turning red too. He – he hadn't considered that. "I – I suppose it depends whether anyplace has enough empty rooms."

"You're not going to share with _him_, are you?" The blond scowled in Spain's direction.

Spain turned and beamed at them both, hugging Romano again, this time with both arms. "Lovi sleeps with me a lot," he bragged.

"Chigi!" Romano smacked him in the face. "Not like that," he said to England. "N-not like what you think."

"But sharing a bed is cozy and romantic too," Spain argued with a grin. "It's always so nice and snuggly when we're together." He ruffled up Romano's hair and the brunet pushed him away.

"Lay off the hair, dammit." He stepped away from the older nation's embrace until he was between the two men in the road. "Let's find a fucking place to stay."

They continued along the road. "Oh! Lovi, look at that beautiful inn!" Spain raised a hand and pointed at a maroon stucco building, with bits of mica embedded in it. "It looks like it's sequined!"

Huh. It did look pretty nice. Sparkling in the sunset, the small building had a sign outside proclaiming a vacancy. "Well, should we check it out, bastards?"

"Might as well," England sighed. Was he really that tired? Or maybe just tired of Spain? Romano chuckled inwardly at that idea.

The inn did have a room with two beds in it. The half-nation knew there would be an argument about it when they got settled in, but he'd deal with that later. Despite the day-long discussion about each of their good points (and several amusing discussions where each of them had pointed out the other's bad points) he couldn't quite make up his mind yet. Maybe he wouldn't go out with either of them. Idly he wondered whether America was dating anyone.

In the room, Spain fell onto the nearest bed and tried to pull Romano down with him.

"Chigi! Stop. Come on, bastard, let go."

"Well?" England asked, somewhat irritably. "Who's sleeping where?" Then he straightened up and gave Romano a sweet, adorable smile.

Dammit. That smile almost made up his mind for him.

But he didn't want to be rude to either of them. Hmm. How to work this?

"Lovi, you know how nice it is to sleep with me. Come lie down and let the _desagradable pirata_ have the other bed."

It was true; Spain was very comfortable to snuggle up to.

Shit! This was such a fucking dilemma!

But then he had an idea, and it would help him make his decision, too. "There's only one way to solve this, bastards. You two sleep in one bed, and I'll take this one."

"Lovi!" Spain wailed.

But England sighed in resignation. "All right. I can honor that." He began to prepare for bed, as did the other two.

Soon the two ex-pirates were asleep. Romano tried to stay awake and figure out what to do, but he was too sleepy, and drifted off shortly thereafter.

…

The morning dawned dim and overcast. Romano arose and washed up in the small hotel bathroom. When he came out, both the others were awake in their bed, stretching.

"Bastards, get up. We still have a long ways to go."

"You go, Lovi. We're staying here." Spain leaned over and kissed England tenderly, and the blond raised his arms up around his neck.

"Take care, git," he said to Romano, before kissing back.

_Chigi!_

…

_The anagram was "A Spangled Maroon Inn."_

_Yeah, I kind of surprised myself, too..._


	118. Britain and Romano and Spain

_Sorry. I just couldn't leave them like that._

…

**Britain/Romano/Spain.**

"Ah, Lovi, we were just joking." Spain let go. "Just trying to goad you into making a decision."

"Hah. Fucking stupid idea, if you ask me," Romano retorted, rubbing his hand over his face.

"You seriously think I'd want to stay in bed with _him_?" England hopped out of the bed and wiped his lips, hurrying into the bathroom, shaking his head.

When he came out, Romano was on one bed, rolling his eyes, and Spain was still in the other, smiling. "I'm going to go," he said politely to the Italian. "If you can just tell me which direction is north, I'll head for home."

Spain's grin grew, but Romano looked puzzled. "Bastard?"

"I – er – well, either you haven't chosen one of us because you're trying to spare my feelings – which is admirable and I'll bow out, or…"

"Or what?" the now-leering Spain asked.

"Or else you _actually think_ that Spain and I are equal, and you're not able to decide between us, which means you're a bloody idiot, and I don't want to be with you!" He bit his lip. "Sorry. Just tell me which way is north, and I'll go."

Romano pointed wordlessly towards the north, frowning slightly.

"Thank you. I suppose I'll see you both at the next meeting." The island nation straightened his jacket and left the room to the sounds of Spain's happy laughter.

England left the hotel and, after orienting himself, began to walk, lost in an irritated trance. How was it possible that Romano couldn't see his superiority over Spain? He must have tomatoes instead of brains.

He walked for hours, forgetting to rest, forgetting to eat or drink until late afternoon. When he realized how tired and hungry (and yes, still angry) he was, there was nothing nearby. Well, he could rest a bit, at least.

England found a big rock at the side of the road and sat, still fuming about Romano's treatment of him. He'd had to _kiss Spain!_ He should have bought some mints to get that taste out of his mouth. At least Spain would be too embarrassed to talk about it, or too stupid. He'd often thought Spain had mush for brains, but now he wondered if it might not be something worse. Onions, maybe. Yes, he would think of Spain as onion-brained, from now on.

A shadow fell across him and he looked up to see Romano, his head hanging. England scanned the road in both directions for Spain, but didn't see him. "Yes?"

Romano raised his gaze, but not high enough; his eyes stopped at about the island nation's collarbone. His face was red and looked quite tormented. "Bastard," he said, and then ceased to speak, pressing his lips together.

"Is something wrong? Something happen to Spain?" Not that he cared. And England still felt a bit cold towards the Italian. Romano was so attractive, and the Brit always enjoyed watching his temper explode at meetings. England frequently felt like exploding, and although he tried to be a gentleman and keep his anger under wraps, he exploded a lot too. He'd actually let himself fantasize once about a big nasty fight with Romano that culminated in hot make-up sex. Hah.

"I – I don't know where Spain is," Romano finally said. "I thought about what you said, and…I felt like an ass, so I came after you to apologize."

What? "Right! _After_ you spent the day with Spain!" Did Romano really think he was that much of an idiot? England stood up, scowling, and Romano finally met his eyes.

"Bastard, I've spent the whole day chasing you up and down the coast! You said you were going north!" His face was red and bewildered and a little angry.

"I did go north, git. Or – well – I went the direction you pointed out. Did you send me south?" Bollocks! If he'd spent the whole day walking south, he was even further from home than before!

"Not on purpose, bastard. You – you must have gotten turned around when you left the hotel."

"Rubbish." But then England thought back and realized the sun had been oriented correctly for a southern walk, not a northern one. He blushed and hung his head. "S-sorry. I think you're right." He blew out a breath and glanced away. Damn it. Now he really looked like an arse.

"Didn't you notice anything? If you were heading north, you would have seen all the stuff we passed yesterday!" Romano put his hands on his hips and glared at the blond.

England turned back. "But I – I wasn't paying attention to anything we passed yesterday," he offered in a quieter tone. What the hell; his dignity was in shreds by this point. Might as well say it. "Just – just you." He dropped his gaze to his boots.

Romano's anger visibly melted away. "Bastard," he said quietly.

England was intensely embarrassed and didn't know what else to say. For two full minutes he stood, fidgeting, frantically trying to think of some clever comment to end the conversation and let him escape.

"I'm sorry, bastard," Romano finally said. "I – I know Spain pretty well – I mean, he's got nothing but fucking pastrami for brains, but he – he's nice, and so happy all the time. And that's unlike me, and I like that. It's fucking unrealistic, but it helps me stay calm."

"I understand. Now, which way is north?" England turned back the way he'd come.

"Wait – just wait, England. I want to finish talking." Romano rested a hand lightly on his forearm but then withdrew it.

"Go on."

"The – the thing is, I know him really well. And I – I don't know you at all. I mean, the England that I spent yesterday with is not the same as the nasty argumentative England that I see at meetings. I used to think you were some vicious bastard. But – but yesterday you were completely different."

"Well, of course I was. I was trying to impress you, so you'd go out with me." Romano must really be an idiot if he hadn't figured that out.

"I'm always scared of new things," Romano confessed. "I try to hide it, but – but I was terrified at the idea of dating you, when you brought it up yesterday. That's why I couldn't say anything. It was all very disturbing."

England waited to see just how much further into the dirt Romano could grind his soul. This was possibly the most humiliating day of his life.

"S-so," the brunet went on, "when we spent the day together and you were – were really friendly – intelligent and whatever, and calm – I started to really consider it. But I couldn't say anything in front of Spain, you know; I was in a really impossible position when the three of us were together."

"Yes?"

"Bastard, what I'm trying to say is that I'm sorry I hurt your feelings, and I see it was a stupid way to handle it, and I – I – I think I'd like to go out with you, dammit." Romano blushed violently and turned his whole body away.

"You're serious."

"Of course I'm serious! Don't make this harder than it has to be, bastard."

"Like it hasn't been bloody difficult for the last two days?" But England realized that he needed to tone it down. "If you turn around and look at me while you say that, I'll believe you. But if you can't look, then you obviously don't mean it. I wouldn't want you to do this just out of fear, or repentance, or whatever."

Romano turned slowly. "You really are a gentleman," he said in wonder. "But you never show it."

"A gentleman and a bastard," England smirked. Romano wouldn't be able to say it, he knew.

The amber eyes met his. "I would – would like to go out with you, England. I want to find out how different you are, from what you show in public."

Relieved and astonished, England smiled that sweet smile. "I'd like that too, Romano." He reached out a hand and Romano took it hesitantly. "Now – which way is north?"

"Why don't we keep going south? We're almost to Rome, now, and you – you could stay at my place?" He turned red; England did too.

"Th-thank you," the blond replied. "And, er, thanks for coming after me. It was really brave of you."

"Cheh. I had to get away from the grabby pastrami-brain. It was a nice walk." Still holding his hand, Romano began to lead England down the path towards Rome.

"Is there someplace we can eat? I haven't eaten yet today."

"Calm down, bastard," Romano said, sounding happy. "We'll find a place. Hang in there."

…

_The anagram was "Pastrami Onion Brain."_


	119. Prussia and Spain

**Prussia/Spain.**

"_Spanien!_ What the hell are you doing outside so mopey?" Prussia danced up and ruffled his friend's hair. "You don't look so good."

"Oh, _Prusia_, I'm in misery. Lovi ran off this morning to take care of something, and he never came back! I don't know what to do!" He sighed.

"Huh." Prussia plopped down on the step of the sparkly maroon hotel. "What are you guys doing out here, anyway? Little romantic vacation? Kesesese! So you finally got him to go out with you."

"Hah. No." Spain went on to detail the long walk with England, the competition for Romano's hand, and England's abrupt departure that morning. "About half an hour later Lovi said he had to go take care of something, and he'd meet me later. But I've been waiting here all day and it's almost bedtime and he hasn't come back!" Spain put his head in his hands. "I hope he's all right. I'd never forgive myself if something happened to him."

"Nothing happened to him, kesesese. I passed him on the road."

"You _did_? Why didn't you say?"

"Didn't really think it was an issue. He didn't seem stressed, or anything."

"Where were you when you saw him?"

"Oh, down near Rome. West and I went to visit Veneziano, and he took us all to Romano's place, but when he wasn't there, I left and decided to go for a walk; West and Veneziano went back to his place. And then I met Romano, and then you! How awesome. A day of nations."

But Spain wasn't convinced. "Come inside with me. If – if Lovi made it all the way back to Rome, then he won't be back here tonight, and I need to see if they have a room for me."

"Sure. I don't mind. In fact I might as well stay with you. It's late for me to be heading home." The two friends passed into the hotel again, where Spain requested a room and was given the same room as previously.

"This isn't such a bad room. Not too expensive, either. Let's go down to the bar."

"All right," Spain sighed.

Prussia was a little worried. Why was Spain so down? He was usually upbeat. Maybe Romano had given him the brush-off, or maybe Spain and Iggy had gotten in a fight about this. Yeah, that was probably it. It wouldn't be surprising. Hell, Prussia could cheer him right back up!

They sat at the bar and ordered drinks. "Can we please get a bowl of pretzels and a bowl of raisins?" Prussia asked politely. The bartender nodded and went to fill the bowls.

"Raisins?" Spain asked, with a glimmer of amusement. "Why are you eating raisins?"

"High in potassium! One big bowl of raisins gives me my entire daily requirement of raisins. America has all these charts and things, you know, so I follow them. I need to stay healthy." The albino nodded vigorously.

"You're using _America_ as a nutritional role model?" Spain started laughing.

"Oh, stop. You know what I mean."

When the bartender brought the bowl of raisins Prussia pushed it towards his friend. "Have some. Maybe you're suffering from a potassium deficiency? West did some studies, and so did Veneziano; Germans and Italians often suffer from it. Maybe Spaniards do too?"

"Eh, _t__í__o,_ I'll pass up the raisins. I don't think they're going to help me."

Prussia was astounded. How could anyone pass up awesome, nutritious raisins? And they were so delicious with beer, too! He scarfed down a handful and washed them down with his Pilsner. "You don't know what you're missing. Drink that Bloody Mary. Maybe you have a tomato deficiency."

Spain sighed again. "I do have a tomato deficiency! I miss my little _tomatito._"

"Oh, stop moping. Can't you think about anything besides Romano?"

"No."

"See, this is your problem, Spain. You consider yourself the country of passion, and then, you get fixated on that. What you need to do is find some other hobby or focus to branch out so your obsessions don't all center on sex and love. Maybe you should study military things more. You're not so good at that."

"_Prusia,_ I'm too old and tired to try to be a military power again. Besides, I'm a little scared of war."

"Kesesese! Nothing to worry about there. Well, if you don't want to do military stuff, how about…beermaking? You could become an awesome beermaker, you know. I'd teach you, and then you'd have an outlet so you wouldn't be so focused on romance. Which is a load of _Scheisse_ anyway," he opined. "Have some raisins."

"No raisins! And…no beermaking, either. Beer makes me burp."

"Beer makes everybody burp!" Prussia burped. "Okay, no beermaking. How about…hot air ballooning?"

"No."

"Rock climbing?"

"No! Prussia, just stop. You know I'm not into all that outdoorsy business like you are."

"And that – is – exactly – your – problem!" Prussia poked him in the sternum. Seriously, why couldn't Spain see this? "Painting? Skiing? Shooting! You and Swissy could become friends!"

"Eh, _no._"

Prussia was at his wit's end; he ordered them another round of drinks to compensate. "Huh. Spas. You could open some fancy spas."

Spain didn't reply, just sank his head onto the table.

"Raisin farming?"

"Prussia!"

"Oh, all right. That one was just a joke." He finished his new beer and ate some pretzels. "I'll tell you what. Since I'm not having any luck with you I'm going to call _Frankreich_ and see if he'll come over to hang out with us. Maybe he can cheer you up."

"Whatever."

Prussia moved to a quieter area of the bar and pulled out his new cell phone, dialing France's number.

"_Bon soir,_ France speaking."

"Kesesese! Hey, man."

"Ah, _Prusse,_ how are you, _mon ami_?"

Prussia outlined his current woes. "So, he's in a rut; all he can think about is sex and romance and shit like that, and I can't get him to focus on anything else! Can you come over and help out?"

"Ohonhonhonhon, _cher Prusse_, I most certainly can. Stay in the bar; I'll meet you there."

"Awesome!"

…

_Heh. Stay tuned._

_The anagram was "Pass Up Raisin."_


	120. Prussia and France

**Prussia/France.**

France bustled into the maroon inn's small bar, grinning widely. "_Espagne,_ my dear, please tell me what is wrong." France slipped his arms around Spain and cradled him tenderly. Prussia scowled at this.

"Eh. Lovi was supposed to meet me today, and he went back to Rome without me!" Spain leaned against his friend, always so warm and comfortable. He was really glad France was here to help. The three of them working together should be able to lighten his heart.

France kissed his cheek.

Prussia punched France in the arm.

"What are you doing, _Prusse?_ Jealous? Ohonhonhon…" France smirked at the albino.

"We're trying to get him to stop thinking about sex and romance! Not start all this kissy shit. Let go of him."

"Ah, Gilbert, let him hug me. I need a hug." Maybe if he called Prussia "Gilbert" it would soften him. The three of them often used their human names with each other, because they were so close to one another.

"There, you see, _mon ami_? He needs a hug." France hugged him and Spain giggled a little bit before reaching for his latest drink.

"Come on, France. Let go of him and have a drink and help work this out."

"_Bien._" The blond let go and sat at the bar on the other side of Spain, admiring his face in the long mirror behind the bar. He blew a kiss to the bartender and Spain laughed.

When the bartender came back Prussia asked for another bowl of raisins. "What's that all about, _mon cher_?"

He explained his nutritional quest. Spain rolled his eyes.

"That's about the dumbest idea you've ever had, _Prusse._ Since when is America someone to emulate in the matter of nutrition? Soon you'll be drinking milkshakes and eating nothing but" – he shuddered – "hamburgers!"

"Shut up, _Frankreich._ I'll eat what I want. I wouldn't be surprised if you were suffering from a deficiency, too." Prussia scowled at him in the mirror. "That would explain why you can't focus on anything but sex."

Spain, between them, sat up a little straighter. This sounded ominous.

But France just laughed. "_Oui, _Gilbert, I am suffering. I'm suffering from a deficiency of love." He wrapped his arms around Spain and kissed his cheek, stroking his hair; Spain smiled and leaned against him.

"Damn it, France!" Prussia got up and yanked the blond away. "You are not helping!"

"Prussia, you need to calm down. Leave _Francia_ alone. I liked what he was doing." Spain winked at France.

Prussia, seeing this in the mirror, scowled again. "This is not the point!"

"Have some raisins, _mon ami_, and they might help you calm down." France burst into laughter after offering this bit of advice, and even Spain cracked a smile.

"Raisins," the albino scoffed. But he did take a handful. "You two are a couple of sex-obsessed idiots."

"Mm, yes, we know," France replied, hugging and kissing Spain again. "It's wonderful."

The brunet laughed outright, at this.

"Damn it!" Prussia threw his handful of raisins in France's face.

"_Prusse!_ Stop that." The blond dropped his arms from Spain and faced Prussia with a bit of anger on his face.

"Stop hugging him. It's counterproductive!"

"I'll hug whoever I want." France hugged Prussia this time, and the albino pushed him away.

"Idiots, I tell you. It's no wonder Romano ran off with Iggy." He snorted.

"_What?_" the other two screeched.

Prussia smirked. "Yeah. I wasn't going to tell you, Spain, because I was trying to spare your feelings, but they were heading towards Romano's house, holding hands and sharing a gelato. They looked pretty happy together. Never seen Iggy smile like that before." He kept smirking at the other two in the mirror.

Spain slid off the barstool and collapsed on the floor. "Oh, Lovi, Lovi, you're going to regret it…" he moaned to his absent little _tomatito._ How? _How?_

France bent down and tried to pick him up. "Get up, _Espagne._ You look like an idiot."

"He is an idiot," Prussia laughed, ordering another beer.

Reluctantly Spain got off the floor and allowed France to hug and kiss him some more. His mind was busy elsewhere, though, thinking of Romano and England. He punched the bar. "Ow," he groaned, shaking his hand.

"Be calm, _mon doux. _You don't need to worry about him. Not when you have me!" France kissed him again and Spain smiled, feeling his friend's loving lips on his, and then France abruptly pulled away.

"Where are you going, _Francia_?"

But Prussia had pulled his friend away and now punched France in the face. "_Merde!_ Gilbert, you idiot, you're going to ruin my beautiful face!" The blond held his hands up to protect his face.

"Damn right I will!" He threw another punch, but only hit France's arms. "I'll ruin that awesome face once and for all!" He tried to punch again, but France had hidden his face in his arms, resting on the bar and cringing.

"Stop, stop, stop all this sparring," Spain begged, grabbing Prussia's arm. "Gilbert, don't hurt him. You know we're no match for your military might." He smiled weakly.

Prussia started laughing at that. "Kesesese! Spain's right. You know I can't really beat you up, _Frankreich_. Now, stop all this hugging and let's find some outlet for Spain to channel his romantic desires into." He sat back down, and France reluctantly raised his head from the bar. "Knitting? Spoon collecting? Skydiving!"

France boggled, but Spain just picked up a drink and drank it. "You don't need to find me an outlet. I'll be all right, my friends."

"Sure you will! You've got us, you know." The albino wrapped an arm around each of his friends and hugged them, grinning maniacally at their reflections in the mirror.

France ordered more drinks. Spain, now resigned, reached for the bowl of raisins. Maybe there was something to this nutritional business, after all.

…

_The anagram was "Spar Ruins Face."_

_Still not done with this arc. Stay tuned._

_I don't know if "mon doux" is a real French term of endearment. I translated "my sweet" and that's what I got._


	121. Rumania and Bulgaria

**Rumania/Bulgaria.**

Rumania awoke in a cheerful frame of mind but then remembered what he had to do today. Now very sad, he got out of bed and finished his morning routine, checking his eyes for redness, brushing his teeth carefully, combing his messy hair. It wouldn't do, to be sloppy or unkempt, today of all days. At least the weather was clear, not raining, and it wasn't too cold yet.

In front of the closet, he dressed with care, all in black. A pair of skinny black pants, black boots, a crisp white dress shirt, black skinny tie, and a black jacket completed his ensemble. He also reached for his somber black top hat with the grey band.

Before putting it on, he looked at it objectively. Maybe – maybe on a day like today, _all black_ was too somber. After all, in a way today would be a celebration of life as well. With a wobbly smile he replaced the black hat and pulled out a lime green one with a red band. Yes. Festive. He wouldn't want Bulgaria to be saddened, seeing him in his gloomy black gear.

Once dressed, Rumania opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a gold snuffbox. This had been his favorite one, ever since the days when snuff had been popular. Nobody used it any more, of course, but he'd kept all the boxes, because they were like little works of art. Yes. This would be a good choice to honor his friend. He checked to make sure it was empty, and clean, and it was.

Feeling a little tearful he carried it to the kitchen, where he first made himself a cup of strong dark coffee. After drinking it, he opened his refrigerator with a little grimace and pulled something out. Rumania felt tearful, but blinked a few times while placing the cold item into the snuffbox, regaining his composure.

The doorbell rang. Bulgaria was here. He put the snuffbox into his jacket pocket and hurried to the front door.

"Good morning, Rumania," Bulgaria said, trying to smile. He too was dressed all in black, and even wore a fancier pair of black gloves than his everyday ones.

His host drew him into the house. "Thank you for coming over, my friend." They embraced and shared kisses on each cheek before stepping back and facing each other. Now that Bulgaria was here, Rumania felt even sadder.

"A-are we ready to, to proceed?"

Rumania nodded sadly. "I just need to get one more item. Hold on." He led Bulgaria to a small rarities room where he unearthed a solid gold shovel, the small type such as children use at the seaside. "I – I'm ready."

The two friends walked outside, Rumania in the lead, until they came to a ring of majestic oak trees. "I thought we could do it here," he said brokenly.

Bulgaria just nodded, moving to stand on his left side.

Rumania dropped to his knees and began digging a hole with the gold shovel. When it was big enough to place the snuffbox into, he did so, tears beginning to fall. The blond nation stood up, leaving the shovel on the grass and the snuffbox uncovered, and began a speech.

"Ahem. Dearly beloved," he began, sniffling. "D-dearly beloved." Tears filled his eyes and he wiped them with his right hand. He felt Bulgaria take his other hand and hold it supportively, which made him even more sentimental. He was glad to have a friend like Bulgaria. But now Rumania needed to focus and be strong.

"Dearly beloved," he said more clearly. "Today we – we are gathered here to mourn the p-p-passing of one so dear to us. Mircea, noble heart, wise friend…we…always loved and…honored you." Rumania was finding it more difficult to talk; emotion choked him. Bulgaria squeezed his hand again and the blond wiped his eyes once more.

"In your…brief life, you…brought much joy; my house – my house was brightened," he cried out, "by your cheerful presence." Sobs were audible in his voice now; he knew he'd be a wreck, but didn't care. He had to go on.

"We…always cared for you, Bulgaria and I…we…_loved you_," he sobbed wildly, and Bulgaria embraced him.

"Shh, it's all right, he – he's gone to a better place," his friend whispered, stroking the back of his neck. "Calm down. He – he wouldn't want to see you falling apart this way."

Rumania nodded and sniffed. That was true. He needed to be honorable and strong! "Yes," he whispered against Bulgaria's hair. "Thank you." He hugged back and the two friends spent a moment consoling each other before Rumania drew back. He took Bulgaria's hand again and continued his speech.

"Mircea, you…died an honorable death, when you…tried to rescue my ring…from the garbage disposal…" Oh, this was breaking his heart, killing him. He looked at the ring in question, a gem-encrusted gold band forged in the 1600s, which he had always loved. The day it had fallen in the disposal he'd almost gone insane trying to get it out with his strong hands, and only Mircea's loving intervention had saved it. He began crying again and Bulgaria hugged him again.

"Would you like me to finish the speech?" his friend asked.

"N-no. I can manage. J-just a little bit more." He kissed Bulgaria's cheek and stepped back again, clearing his throat. "Mircea, I will be forever grateful to you, and will honor your name forever. You were a brave and entertaining iguana, whose beauty was unsurpassed."

"That is true," Bulgaria responded solemnly, taking his hand. "I knew no better iguana."

Rumania collapsed into Bulgaria's arms again, squeezing him tightly for support. The green hat fell off, and he watched it roll away sadly through his tears. "Oh, I – I just wish that when the accident was over," he wailed, "I'd been able to find more than just your arm!"

…

_Yep, this is a new one for me. I saw a great sketch of them on dA and it inspired me to plug them into the anagram generator._

_I prefer the spelling of "Rumania" simply because that's how I learned it in school, but if I keep using him, I may go with "Romania" occasionally as well._

_The anagram was "Iguana Arm Burial."_


	122. France and Spain II

**France/Spain.**

"Come home with me, Antonio," France crooned into Spain's ear. "We can get rid of Gilbert on the way so we don't have to listen to nonsense about his raisins."

"_S__í__._ I want to stay with you tonight, Francis. I want you to take my troubles away. But – but I already paid for the room here at the inn. Why don't you stay here with me? Do you think we can make Gilbert leave?"

"We can certainly try." They both looked over at the albino, who was deep in an argument with the bartender, presumably about the nutritional value of the raisins. Prussia kept pointing to the bowl and shaking his fist as he yelled incoherently in German.

"_Merde,_ he's drunk again. Does he know which room you're in? If we can slip away, maybe we can get away from him?"

"He knows," Spain sighed. "I showed him the room before we came to the bar."

France patted him. Ah, that _derri__è__re!_ He was quite happy to spend the night with Spain tonight, even though they were both a little tipsy. "Come on. Maybe he's so drunk he'll forget where it was?"

"Ah, but the staff would just bring him upstairs? Oh, wait. I have an idea." He motioned over a waitress, because the bartender was still trying futilely to win the argument with Prussia.

"Excuse me," Spain said winningly, and France put on a charming smile as well. "We're going to leave the bar. When our friend passes out – as he inevitably will – just throw him outside, will you? We don't wish to be interrupted in our room." He slid an arm around the blond, resting his chin on France's shoulder.

The waitress, holding a tissue to her nose, nodded agreement. "We'll f-f-figure something out," she managed, blushing.

France blew her a kiss and winked as they got up to leave; the last thing he saw was the waitress' body crumpling to the floor in a faint.

…

"_Espagne_, you really are the most delicious nation ever. Don't bother anymore with silly little Romano, who doesn't have a brain in his head."

"How can you say that to me? You, who chase every nation in the world, with your shameless posing and desire?"

Naked in the bed, they kissed and snuggled closer. They'd had three uninterrupted hours, and France was vaguely wondering what had happened to Prussia – but his attention was definitely on his beloved Spain. "_Mon cher_, I have to! It's – it's part of my national makeup." He shrugged elegantly.

"Even with _Inglaterra_?" Spain ground his teeth. "I think maybe you chase him because you want him, not just because it's part of your national makeup."

"_Angleterre – _well, he and I have a special relationship."

"Like me and Lovi!" Spain persisted.

"_Espagne._" France held his friend close. "I'm – I'm willing to stop chasing _Angleterre_, if you'll stop chasing Romano. If – if Gilbert is right, and they're together now – "

"I know he's right," Spain growled, but weakly.

" – then why don't we take some time for each other? You know how much I love you."

Spain sighed and took his hand. "I love you, too, _Francia._ Let's try. It would be nice to know someone wanted to be with me, instead of me having to fight Lovi for his attention all the time."

France kissed his hair. "I don't think we'll regret it, _mon cher._"

Just then a loud hammering came at the hotel room door. "_Mierda!_" Spain yelled. "I thought he would have passed out by now!" He leaped out of the bed and threw on his underwear. "Just hold on, Prussia!"

"_Signori_," a man's voice replied, "please come and help us with your friend!"

Spain and France looked at each other in astonishment, and France got out of the bed too. "_Oui,_" France called out. "We'll be out in a minute." They got fully-dressed; France teased his flowing locks into place before opening the door dramatically.

The flustered hotel manager stood there. "_Signori_, your friend has gone to the hotel spa and is making a ruckus!"

"Lead the way," Spain said, and they left.

...

Prussia was nowhere in sight when they arrived. "_Signore?_" the manager called out.

"I'm over here, you _K__ä__sekopf!"_ The albino's voice came from behind a large pile of towels in disarray.

France and Spain looked at each other, then at the towels. "Gilbert?"

"_Frankreich?_" Prussia stood up, waving an empty beer bottle. "Come and play, guys! This spa is awesome. I've already used the sauna, the steam room, the special hot showers. Kesesese. I even used those hot rocks for massages! I put them on my belly since I couldn't reach my back."

France was still confused. "_Mon ami_, you don't sound drunk."

"Drunk? I'm not drunk. I stopped drinking before you two ran off and left me. I filled up this beer bottle with raisins because it was easier to carry around." Prussia stepped over the pile of towels and came to embrace his friends, shaking some raisins out of the bottle into their hands. France dropped his on the floor; the manager moved to the corner of the room, eyes wide and worried.

"Sure, let's try the sauna," Spain said, making Prussia grin and France frown.

"_Espagne?_"

"Oh, why not? It'll feel good after our – our workout," he smirked, eating the raisins.

"Kesesese! I knew you two would have a little fun together."

Spain moved to the sauna and opened the door. "But it's cold in here!"

"Oh, well, yes, I turned the heat off. It was too hot and I didn't want to take my clothes off. Didn't want the staff fainting at the sight of my awesome white body." Prussia struck a pose, holding the bottle like a dumbbell.

"Stop," France begged. "Let's just get out of the spa."

But Spain had already begun fiddling with the sauna controls. Prussia, meanwhile, had moved over to the area with the steam room. "Check this out!" He flung the steam room door open and clouds of steam billowed out, making him look like a demon king as he stood brandishing the bottle and laughing.

"_Signori,_" the hotel man whimpered, but no one heeded him.

France reluctantly went to look at the sauna, where Spain was fiddling with the controls. "Come out of there, _Espagne._"

"Okay! I want to look at the steam room!"

France rolled his eyes, but followed him. "_Monsieur,_" he said to the manager, "I'm doing the best I can! They are impossible."

"I see that," the Italian replied, staying in his corner.

Prussia had left the steam room door open and moved to a big container in the corner. Despite himself, France was interested. "What's in there?" he asked.

"The awesome massage stones!" Prussia flung the container open. There were about a hundred of them, sorted by size. He began juggling the basalt stones. He was a good juggler, but stones still began flying off trajectory and smashing things. Instead of stopping, the albino simply grabbed more stones and continued juggling.

"_Prusse,_ stop," France begged, trying to intercept the flying stones.

"What?" A stone flew across the room and hit the manager in the head. He fell to the floor.

France rushed to see him and got hit with a stone as well. "Prussia!" he yelled. "Stop with the stones!"

More hotel employees came running, but by now Spain had discovered the stones and began trying to juggle as well. He hit Prussia with one, and the albino stopped juggling and simply pelted stones at Spain, who giggled and retaliated, falling backward into the pile of towels.

"Stop, stop!" France demanded. But his friends paid no heed.

Eventually Prussia ran out of stones and jumped into the towel pile with Spain, laughing and hugging him. They turned to survey the room and found the hotel manager still unconscious, surrounded by his employees. Several lamps had been broken; a few decorative vases lay in shards on the floor, and France was standing by the door, bruised and groaning, with his head in his hands.

"See, _Spanien?_ You _should_ open some awesome spas! Kesesese!"

…

_The anagram was "Inn Spa Farce."_

__"K__ä__sekopf"_ means "cheesehead."_

_Every time I try to type the word "demanded," my fingers type "Denmark." Kesesese!_


	123. Germany and Italy

**Germany/Italy.**

"Germany, ve, what are we having for dinner tonight?" Veneziano planned to be extremely docile and friendly tonight. This was the first time he and his burly blond friend had gotten together since the scary yeti night, and he was going to do his utmost to be a sweet and repentant friend. He'd followed his host into the kitchen and now had a beer in hand while he watched Germany cook.

"Ahem. Prussia brought over some cucumber salad, which is our salad course, and for the main course I have cooked Bratwurst with yams, and rice."

"Yams?" Veneziano tilted his head to the side. "They are from Africa, right?"

"Technically, that is true. But tonight we are eating American yams, which are actually sweet potatoes. They call them yams for some reason, even though they are not."

"Ve, why are we eating them?" Veneziano didn't want to think about America tonight, no.

"America sent me some to apologize for hitting me in the head. These are a new variety he is growing, a subspecies called, for some reason, the Tiny Yam. Please, just relax. I will bring the dinner to the dining room in a few moments."

"Ve, all right." He took his beer into the living room. Veneziano hated beer but it was part of his plan to appear accommodating tonight, so he sipped it delicately. Ugh. Well, when he got home he'd have some wine to take the taste away.

In a few minutes, as promised, Germany came to the dining table with two large covered dishes of food. "Come and sit, Italy. I want to show you something amusing, very amusing indeed."

"What is it, ve?" Veneziano leaped up and came to the big oak dining room table, completely accidentally forgetting his beer in the living room.

Germany held the chair out for his friend. "Sit down, be comfortable. Oh – did you finish your beer? I'll get you a new one." He disappeared into the kitchen again.

With a sigh Veneziano reached for his napkin. Germany came back with the fresh beer and placed it on the table before seating himself. "Would you like some cucumber salad?"

"Yes, please." He held out his small salad plate and Germany delicately scooped some of the tangy salad onto the plate. Veneziano really liked this salad and often asked Prussia to make it for them. He ate it daintily, not bothering with conversation just yet. Germany too seemed to be focused on his food. Yes, the salad was just as delicious as Veneziano had hoped. He savored it, wondering what Prussia was up to tonight. Much as he enjoyed the company of the loud albino, he hoped that Prussia wouldn't be here tonight. That would definitely make it difficult to focus.

Ve, he hoped this plan to appease the stronger nation would work. He owed it to Germany. "Oh," he remembered, after finishing the salad. "You said there was something amusing?" He smiled sweetly at his host.

"Oh. Yes. Wait until I am ready to serve the main course and you will see." Germany had been eating more slowly, so he was taking longer to finish. Veneziano forced down some beer while he waited.

Eventually the blond was ready to serve more of the food. "Please hand me your plate, Italy," he requested, and Veneziano reached it over to him, completely accidentally knocking over his beer.

"Ve! Oh, Germany!" He scurried to mop up the spilled beer with his napkin; Germany threw his own napkin onto the puddle and hastened into the kitchen to get some more napkins.

When he came out the two of them worked together to finish cleaning up the beer. "Do not worry about it. I will polish the table with furniture wax after the meal. It should be all right until then."

"Ve, if you insist."

"But do let me fetch you another beer," the blond said with a smile, heading back into the kitchen. Veneziano rolled his eyes.

He was back in a few seconds. "Here you are," Germany said, handing him a fresh bottle.

Veneziano's voice was resigned as he replied, "Ve, thanks, Germany."

The blond sat down and began to serve. First he served the Bratwurst. This was another dish that Veneziano was not fond of, but again, tonight he was making a big effort. He hoped Romano would never find out about this!

"Now you will see the funny thing. Please observe. You remember that this subspecies is called the Tiny Yam?" Germany lifted the lid from the vegetable bowl.

"Ve, yes?" He peered into the bowl. "Wow! Those are some large yams! If those are the _tiny_ yams, ve, then what do the regular ones look like? America is always growing such steroidal-looking vegetables," he said, nodding, making the blond bark a laugh.

"I did wonder whether America sent us the wrong thing. I would not be surprised."

"At least he didn't send yeti meat!" Veneziano beamed, before remembering that he'd wanted to avoid that entire topic tonight. Oh, dear, ve…He bit his fingernails in consternation.

But Germany simply smiled at him. "Italy, my dear, please do not worry. I can completely see how distressed you were about missing our last date, and I forgive you. I feel that perhaps you suffered enough with America that night, and you do not need to fear repercussions from me."

Veneziano sighed happily. "Ve, Germany. You're perfect. I'm so glad we're friends."

"I – I am too, Italy," the blond replied, blushing fiercely and looking away.

Ve. Germany always looked like a little boy when this happened! It made Veneziano want to pinch his cheeks. Hm. Maybe he'd do that later, ve…"Eat up the large tiny yams, Germany, and when the dishes are clean, we can play together."

Germany glanced back at him, still blushing. "I would be delighted, Italy."

"Ve – then, if all is well, may I please have some wine, instead of beer?"

…

_The anagram was "Large Tiny Yam."_


	124. Estonia and America

**Estonia/America.**

Von Bock had taken over from Beilschmidt with the greatest of ease. In fact, this had pleased Alfred so much that he was quite happy…about his standing army, at least.

Otherwise, his life was in the fucking _tank._ Last week, on their lovely evening date, Feliciano had confessed that he wasn't ready to marry Alfred. Exploding with disbelief – the caterers were lined up, invitations sent out, Alfred had even purchased a new – _real diamond_ – tiara for Feliciano to wear – he'd learned that his fiancé had been having second thoughts for quite some time, but had been afraid to voice them; he'd hoped they'd resolve themselves. But no. He'd waited until a week before the wedding to break it off.

Alfred got up and paced around his office a little before picking up a small bell and ringing it. His butler appeared. "Fetch me Von Bock," he demanded, staring out the window.

The butler bowed wordlessly and left. Alfred paced, fuming, for an entire hour, before Von Bock came in. "Sir?"

"Hello, Eduard. Please take a seat." The landowner gestured to one of the comfortable armchairs by the fireplace.

Eduard sat.

Alfred paced a bit and then sat in the other chair. "I'm at a crisis point," he confessed. Damn. He didn't want to discuss this with Von Bock; he'd much rather have talked to Ludwig about it, but Ludwig was still in disgrace, out negotiating with the rice farmers for monthly supply shipments. Damn.

"How can I help?"

Now that was what Alfred liked to see. Employees who see the problem and want to fix it. He eyed Eduard carefully. From all reports, this young man was keen and efficient. Well, maybe he _could_ help. "Feliciano has called off the wedding."

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir," Von Bock said, not sounding very sorry at all. "Do you want me to cancel the caterers and things?"

"N-no." Alfred's brain had been busy during that hour of pacing. "No. I do not wish to appear some downtrodden, pathetic ex-suitor. What I want to do is continue with the reception – call it a soiree – and just have a nice big party. Invite everyone, celebrate life, whatever the hell it can be called. But I don't want people pitying me, or anything like that. I do need to cancel the wedding ceremony itself, but we will go ahead with the reception as planned."

"Very good idea. What do you need me to do?"

"Not much right now. What I intend to do is wait until everyone's here, make the announcement that the wedding itself is off, and then proceed with the party. This means that most guests are likely to show up bearing wedding gifts. It will be your task – and you may select someone to assist you – to ensure that the gifts are properly returned to their donors, either at the end of the soiree, or the next day. I don't want people thinking that I'm grubbing for presents." He mused. "Vash in particular would be quite angry about that."

"We don't want to anger Mr. Zwingli," Eduard agreed.

"So, you understand? Make sure that at the soiree you categorize each gift and make a note of who brought it, so it can be returned later. Once that list is complete, you may attend the soiree as a guest; bring a date, if you like."

Von Bock perked up. Hah. Perhaps Alfred should start throwing little sops like this to all his employees? Maybe if he'd treated Ludwig better, inviting him to parties, he'd have focused more.

Damn it, that just reminded him of the supply fiasco. He rose, and Von Bock rose as well. "Oh, one more thing," he stated. "Make sure Beilschmidt understands he's permitted to attend the soiree as well."

"Yes, sir. Uh – if I might ask – will your ex-fiancé be attending, or what?"

"I don't even know. He slunk off the other night and I haven't talked to him since. I'll find out."

"You might want to request he stay away. It may create a bizarre tension among the guests."

"A very good idea. I'll send him a note today. Get to work," Alfred barked, and Eduard, saluting, left the room.

Alfred was glad he'd made that decision. In a few weeks all of this would have settled down, and everyone would have forgotten the debacle of Alfred's love life.

…

Guests began to arrive. It seemed that many of them had heard of the breakup through the grapevine. Only three guests brought gifts, so Eduard's job was easily done; he and his friend Raivis began to drink the delicious liqueurs that Alfred had made available.

Alfred, too, was drinking a little more heavily than usual, but Eduard knew he could hold his liquor well. He was a big, strong man, and his body could handle the alcoholic poisons in stronger doses than many other men.

Music began to play. Eduard, feeling happy, partially from his new promotion, partially from the alcohol, took Raivis' hand and led him to the dance floor, where they were joined by a smiling Lovino (a _smiling Lovino?)_ in the arms of an equally happy-looking Arthur, a reunited Vash and Roderich, and – and Feliciano_,_ in his wedding tuxedo, on the arm of – of _Ludwig_? Eduard nearly fainted at that, and grasped Raivis' arm to stay upright.

"Ve," he heard the young Italian say quietly. "This is such a nice party, isn't it?"

"It is indeed," Ludwig said, red-faced.

Eduard dragged Raivis off the dance floor. He did not want to be around when Alfred –

"_What?_" his employer suddenly screeched. "Feliciano?"

Everyone scurried away from the waltzing Italian and German. Hah. Eduard chuckled a little. Probably _nobody_ wanted to be around Alfred right now. He stopped Raivis from fleeing so they could listen in.

But Feliciano and Ludwig stood their ground as Alfred stalked over to them. "H-h-how dare you!"

"Ve, I'm in love with Ludwig," Feliciano said quietly. "I have been for a long time, but I did not think he cared for me."

Alfred looked up into Ludwig's blushing face. "You're fired," he snapped. Then, seeing Eduard in the background, he barked out, "Von Bock! Find me a new rice manager!"

Ludwig tried to draw Feliciano away surreptitiously, but Alfred began to rant, catching the attention of all the soiree guests. "This is how you repay me? You trample on my heart and then flaunt Beilschmidt in my face? In your _wedding tux_?" The blond grabbed a tray of drinks from a footman and flung them across the dance floor in his anger. "Get off my property. _Now._"

"Ve," Feliciano nodded, taking Ludwig's hand and heading for the gates.

"And stay out!" Alfred stamped his foot and began muttering curses that Eduard was too far away to hear. The host stomped over to the string quartet and broke a violin, enraging Roderich, who punched him in the face.

Suddenly the entire party was a melee, guests striking other guests, people throwing food – which seemed to be a feature of all of Alfred's parties. The screams and laughter escalated. Eduard turned to see Feliciano and Ludwig escape.

When he turned back even Raivis was involved, hollering at some kid in a violet tuxedo that Eduard didn't know. He grabbed Raivis' arm. "Come on. Mr. Jones is a maniac! We need to get out of here."

Raivis interrupted his shouting match and nodded. As they hurried away, Eduard turned one more time to look at the mayhem, and saw, peacefully waltzing in the center of it all, a very calm Gilbert and Mathias, nestled together, smiling beatifically.

…

_The anagram was "Maniac at Soiree."_

_Gilbert and Mathias must not be feeling well._


	125. Romania and Estonia

**Romania/Estonia.**

The morning after Alfred's disastrous not-a-wedding-soiree was cold and miserable. Eduard awoke in his little cottage, got dressed in his fatigues, and washed up, before heading towards the castle.

On the way he met Vladimir, the son of one of Alfred's gardeners. "Good morning," Eduard said pleasantly to the young man, who was carrying a large shovel and a blue box.

"Eh, hi. Busy today? Lot of mess to clean up at the Big House. Mr. Jones has his entire staff out working already."

Eduard supposed he'd better hurry.

"Don't worry about that," Vlad laughed. "He's gone back to bed; too hung over."

"What's in the box?"

"Hah. Remember when he had that Christmas party, where we all had to transplant the camellia hedges closer to the castle?" Vladimir spat.

Oh, Eduard remembered. He'd had to help with that, too. Mr. Jones had wanted the camellias – formerly down by the river – to make a private _all__é__e_ for guests to meander down in the chill December night. "Well," the Romanian went on, "he gave Arthur a tiara to wear at that party. Remember?"

"How could I forget? That was the one Gilbert kept wearing all the time. Right?"

"Right. The very beat-up one made of white topaz. That's what's in the box."

"What? What on earth for?" Eduard took the box from Vladimir's hands and opened it, and sure enough, it was the bent, beaten tiara, missing a few stones. He closed the box and handed it back.

"I've been told to bury it somewhere. Jonesy doesn't want to see another tiara again as long as he lives."

Eduard grinned at that. "Doesn't surprise me. He's had a bad year, losing Arthur, losing Feliciano. Where are you supposed to bury it?"

Vlad tucked the box under his arm and gestured towards the river with his shovel. "Ironically, just about where the camellia hedges used to be. I need to get this done, though. Still a lot of garden work to do up there." He looked back towards the castle. "Lot of turf got torn up last night."

"If he's really back in bed, I have some time to kill. I'll come with you and we can take turns digging."

"Sounds all right to me," Vlad laughed. Together they walked down towards the river; its loud roar was heightened by the steep riverbanks, which acted as an amplifier as the sound poured upward.

"Too bad the ground is all hardened again," Eduard realized; it was late October. "It would have been easy to bury the box in the soft earth after the hedges were removed."

"Here, hold the box." The Romanian handed Eduard the tiara box and began to dig. "Luckily it doesn't have to really be very deep. Maybe four feet."

Eduard, lost in thought, gazed around the area. "Hey, look at that little sapling," he laughed. "It looks like a post in a ring toss!" He loved the carnivals that came through the area, and he usually spent too much of his earnings on trying to win carnival prizes.

"Ha ha!" Vlad took the box back. "Let me see if I can ring it with the tiara."

But this horrified the new quartermaster. "Oh, don't! If Mr. Jones finds out we were playing with this thing, he'll explode."

Vladimir scoffed. "How's he going to find out?" Before Eduard could answer, he pitched the tiara towards the little sapling. It missed.

"Ha, bet I can do better," Eduard laughed, his fearsome employer completely forgotten. He hurried to fetch it and they took turns standing at different areas, trying to ring the sapling, and continuing to miss.

"You have to aim more carefully," Vlad growled, with a fierce frown of concentration on his face. His one pointy tooth made him look like a tiger as he focused on the sapling and flung the tiara once more. Rumor had it he filed that tooth to a point just to make himself look more menacing, but Eduard thought it usually made him look very playful.

The tiara missed the sapling. "You're trying too hard." Eduard ran to fetch it and stood on the far side of the sapling, for a change. "If I stand here, then even if I miss it, you can catch it on the way past."

"Good thinking." Vlad bent down and put his hands out as if to catch it. Eduard aimed the tiara and pitched it, and it missed, landing on its edge and rolling towards the Romanian.

"Damn."

Vlad shrugged. "Don't worry about it. Now, seriously, one more go each, and then I really need to bury it and get back to the house. My dad will kill me if I keep skiving off. Things are pretty desperate up there."

"Fine. Throw." Eduard crouched to catch it.

"Right. Here I go." Vladimir threw it and it almost decapitated Eduard, who ducked just in time.

"Hey!"

"Whoops, sorry." But he didn't look sorry. Eduard ran after it and caught it.

"Okay. Last chance, right? I'm going to do it!" Eduard concentrated, focused, and threw the tiara.

Once again it landed on its edge, rolling away, and he smacked himself in the face, dislodging his glasses. For this reason he did not see where the tiara rolled to, and it was only when he heard Vladimir's cries of "Noooooooooo!" that he put his glasses on correctly and looked around.

Vladimir was standing on the edge of the high, sheer river cliff. "Damn. It fell down into the river. Why can't you aim better?"

"Well? You didn't ring it either!" Eduard knew he'd lose his new job if word of this frivolous accident got back to Mr. Jones. He'd bet he wouldn't even be allowed to be the rice manager.

"That's beside the point. Okay, listen. I'm not going down there to look for it, all right? It would take all day." The young Romanian walked back to the hole he'd dug. "So listen. We're going to bury the box, and if anybody asks, the tiara was in it when we buried it. All right? We're in this together."

Eduard sighed. "Yes, all right. Bury the box. Then we should get back to the house."

"I know." Vlad hastily buried the blue tiara box, tamping the earth down with his boot, and the two young men hurried back to Mr. Jones' castle.

…

_The anagram was "Aim One Tiara, Son."_

_Romania doesn't have a human name; I picked Vladimir for the obvious reasons. _


	126. Lovino and Feliciano

_So many readers are upset with Feli's brutal treatment of Alfred that I thought he needed a lecture about it. And who better to do this than his loving, supportive older brother? _

…

**Lovino/Feliciano.**

"Don't come bitching to me, fratello. You brought it all on yourself." Lovino was curt, trying to clean the kitchen before Arthur's visit later in the day. He was tired of his little brother's moaning. Everyone in the district (saving Lovino and, of course, the potato bastard Ludwig) had shunned the young man, both for his dumping of Alfred days before the wedding, and his coarse behavior in bringing his new beau to the – the – the soiree, or whatever the fuck Alfred had called it. It would have been a very nice party, otherwise.

Lovino got a fond little smile on his face, thinking about how nice Arthur had looked in his new (black) tuxedo. If only Feliciano hadn't ruined the party with that boorish act! Lovino was no special friend of Alfred's, but he too found Feli's behavior very rude. In the fighting, Lovino's jacket had gotten torn, and Arthur was now sporting quite a shiner. They were planning a quiet evening at Lovino's place tonight, and he was going to make sure Arthur felt pampered. Nobody should have to suffer a fucking black eye just because of Feliciano's idiotic behavior.

"But Lovi. I don't know what to do, ve! None of my friends are speaking to me!"

"Not even Roderich?" Lovino sneered. He knew why Roderich wouldn't speak to Feli.

"R-r-roderich is quite upset with me. Ve, he won't even speak to Ludwig, and they used to be good friends too!"

"Do you understand what you did wrong?"

"Oh, well, yes, ve, but it really is all your fault, you know." Feliciano picked up a peach from a basket and began to eat it calmly.

"_My_ fault? How the fuck is it my fault?" Lovino threw a dishrag at his brother, who swatted it aside. It fell onto the countertop.

"Ve, Lovi, if you hadn't run off with Arthur that night, none of this would have happened! You should have just let me dance with Arthur, ve, instead of getting my hair all sticky with cinnamon buns."

The older brother snorted. "Right. And then you would have hurt Arthur instead of Alfred. Idiot." He recovered the dishrag and began to wipe down the countertops. "I will not let you hurt him. I won't."

"Well, that's probably not what would have happened, ve." Feli finished the peach and got up to put the pit into the garbage, then moved to wash his sticky hands.

"What do you mean, 'probably not'?" Lovino's voice was malicious. "Now what are you talking about?"

"I don't even know what I was thinking that night. Arthur – well, in that dress, ve, Arthur looked very different and sweet, but almost as soon as you had gone, I realized that I didn't really want to be with him. So maybe, ve, just _maybe_ if you had just let me dance with him, I would have realized that a lot sooner, and then I wouldn't have jumped into a rebound with Alfred. Ve."

"How can you be such a fucking idiot so much of the time and then you can calmly analyze yourself this way? You drive me nuts! Now get out of my kitchen." Lovino shooed him towards the front door, flapping the dishrag like a bullfighter.

Feli slipped off the barstool but didn't leave the room yet. "I don't have any place left to go, ve! Ludwig doesn't want to see me until tonight, and nobody else will talk to me."

"I'm completely unsurprised by this," Lovino told him angrily, finishing in the kitchen. "But I don't want to have to listen to your whiny shit all day either. Go find something to do. In fact, bastard, what you should do is go apologize to Alfred. Preferably in front of a lot of people, even if it's only his servants. Abase yourself! I have to get the rest of the house ready and don't have time for this. Arthur is coming to visit and I want it to be nice for him." He blushed a little, but dammit, he _did_ want it to be nice, and his fratello really was driving him nuts. "Go."

"Do you think if I apologize to Alfred that people will start talking to me again? Ve, Ludwig is out of a job, and I don't want him to be shunned or out of work because of my problems with Alfred!"

"Dammit. Buy Roderich's musician a new violin and he'll probably forgive you, stupid. And if _he_ does, you know the albino potato will, and Vash, and probably Lili."

"Oh, I'm not worried about Gilbert. He's been super friendly to me ever since I got together with Ludwig, ve."

"Shut up about it. I can't stand that you're actually dating that macho potato. It's bad enough you give the family a bad name by what you did to Alfred, but – ugh! Fratello, you have no taste at all." Lovino shook his head in disgust.

"Well, neither do you, Lovi. Arthur is a scruffy mess, ve!"

"Shut the fuck up!" Lovino bellowed, red and instantly angry. "Arthur is _perfect_, and I don't want you saying another word about him. Now get out of here, you stupid birdbrain, and go try to salvage your fucking busted reputation. Don't come back until everything is back to normal. Do you hear me?"

"Ve, I hear you, Lovi," Feliciano said sadly, reaching for his jacket. "I – I guess I'll go see Alfred. I'd better take a white flag, ve. So he doesn't hurt me."

"Ciao, fratello," Lovino said, much calmer now that he knew the idiot was actually leaving. "But I meant what I said. Don't keep coming around here to whine at me. Do something productive and get the district back to normal."

"Ve…all right. Ciao, Lovi." He walked out the door, pulling it shut behind him, and Lovino collapsed on the couch. Dammit.

…

_The anagram was "Ciao, Violin Felon!" I know technically Alfred broke the violin, but it was Feli's fault._


	127. Iceland and Liechtenstein

**Iceland/Liechtenstein.**

"I am glad you were able to come visit me during this religious season," Liechtenstein said to her boyfriend, Iceland. "Switzerland and I always cook a lot of very tasty treats that do not violate the Church's rules for Lenten fasting. Since I knew you were coming over, I made a lot of them, including one new one."

"I'm excited to try them," Iceland replied, squeezing her hand.

Liechtenstein gestured him towards the sofa in the parlor, where he sat and relaxed. "Will you take tea?"

"Yes, thank you."

"I'll be back with tea and treats!" Liechtenstein had gotten quite graceful in high heels lately, and she was wearing a pair of almost unreasonably high black suede stilettos. As she walked out to the kitchen to make the tea, Iceland found himself staring at her slender figure. When she walked – in those shoes – her hips swayed so alluringly! The two of them had been dating for over a year, and while he cared for her very much, he'd never particularly thought of her as sexy. Beautiful, yes, elegant, yes, but never really _sexy_.

Not until she walked away from him in those shoes.

And it was Lent. Damn. He couldn't fool around with her during Lent! He wasn't as religious as she was, but he knew that fooling around during this intense Catholic season would be frowned upon.

Certainly Switzerland would have something to say about that.

Iceland then spent a little time wondering what Swissy thought of his little sister's new shoes. Hah.

Liechtenstein came back out with the heavy silver tea tray laden with things. Iceland jumped up and took it from her, carrying it the rest of the way to the small tea table. "You should have called me! I can easily carry a big tray like this so that you don't strain yourself. In your sexy new shoes," he blurted out, instantly feeling embarrassed.

"Oh, do you like them?" She pirouetted in front of him, making her skirts spin out and exposing her legs. She had very nice legs.

Iceland decided to sit down. "I do like them. What made you start wearing them?"

"Well, partially because of Poland, but also, I just felt it was time for me to grow up a little. Everyone treats me like a little princess, and I am a full-grown woman, you know."

"Oh, I know," Iceland agreed with a grin. "Come sit on my lap, my full-grown love, and tell me about the treats you've made for me."

Liechtenstein blushed prettily. "I can't sit on your lap during Lent!" She sat next to him, instead, but snuggled up closely. "I made _Lebkuchen_, which is always a nice basic thing. Typically it's more for Christmas, but it is one of my favorites and Switzerland's too, so I hope you will like it. I sliced them very thin this year, because we shouldn't be pigging out during Lent. I also made _Honiglebkuchen_, which are a little different. These too are also sliced thinly. Then we have _L__ä__ckerli_, _Tirggel_, and _piparkökur._"

"You made _piparkökur? _This is wonderful! They all look and smell delicious," Iceland assured her.

"Please try some while I pour the tea."

Iceland immediately ate a piece of _L__ä__ckerli_. He wanted to save the _piparkökur _for last, in case it was not as good as real Icelandic _piparkökur. _ He wouldn't want to insult his girlfriend's cooking!

But the _L__ä__ckerli _was delicious. By the time he finished eating the thin delicacy, the tea was ready; he and Liechtenstein toasted each other with their elegant teacups (a little ritual they always shared when eating and drinking together) and began to sip tea.

After trying the Swiss desserts Iceland finally reached for the _piparkökur_.

"Please do tell me if I did all right," Liechtenstein said shyly.

Iceland ate the _piparkökur. _"It's delicious! Liechtenstein, this is even better than real Icelandic _piparkökur._ Thank you so much for making it for me." He quickly ate another piece.

She smiled. "I'm so glad it turned out well." They shared a quick ginger-flavored kiss. "I've had some problems cooking with ginger before," she admitted, "but I practiced a lot. There were several batches of _piparkökur _that I had to dump out in the linden garden. I suppose the birds ate the crumbs."

"Lucky birds!"

The two nations finished their tea and cookies, talking of this and that. "So where is your Bruder anyway?"

"Switzerland has gone to visit Austria."

"So they are actually dating? They seem so on-again, off-again."

"I'm not sure whether they are or not."

"Well, I hope they can make up their minds. I hope either way they can be as happy as we are," he said, taking her hand. "May I clear the tea things away?"

"Please?" She smiled at him so appealingly that Iceland kissed her hand before standing up to clear away the tea things.

Together they went into the kitchen and washed up the tea service, the plates, and the cups. When everything was on the drying rack, Liechtenstein turned back to him. "What would you like to do now?"

With a mischievous grin, Iceland bent down and whispered something in her ear. Liechtenstein blushed, giggled, and hid her face with her hand. "Iceland! Not during Lent!"

But he was not rebuffed. He picked up his girlfriend and spun her around in the kitchen, and she held him; they laughed together and kissed one another, tasting of delicious ginger.

…

_The anagram was "Thin Lenten Delicacies."_


	128. Austria and Switzerland

_For Orithyea. This takes place in the Skirmish Brothers universe, right after ch. 60 ("The Write Stuff")._

…

**Austria/Switzerland.**

"Ugh. Switzerland, I have had such a miserable day!"

"I know. So did I. Cuba took my Mont Blanc pen!" Switzerland hit the table with the butt of his Luger. "At least I got it back."

Austria gave him a funny look. "Have you been asleep or something? Cuba didn't take anything! It was all Prussia's fault."

"Oh. I didn't realize that." Now acting even more irritated, Switzerland holstered the pistol and scowled. "Where did everybody go?"

"The meeting is over for today!" Austria bopped him on the head with a free pen. "What is the matter with you?"

"Oh, nothing, really." Switzerland stood up. "I'm just so frustrated. Why don't we go out for a walk or something?" He gave Austria a flirty little look – or at least as flirty as Switzerland ever got.

"Delighted!" Austria jumped up, extending his hand, and Switzerland grabbed it. "Ow."

"Don't be mean to me, Austria. I'm in a very bad mood."

Since Room K was otherwise empty, Austria pulled his boyfriend into an embrace. "Calm down, _mein Sch__ö__ner._ There's no reason to be in a bad mood when you're with me." He smoothed his hand over Switzerland's hair, which dislodged the blond's beret.

Switzerland threw the beret on the table. "Forget the walk. Stay here." He shut the conference room door.

"What exactly do you have in mind?" Austria seemed intrigued and came closer.

"Hold me," Switzerland muttered. "Just – just come into the sunlight and hold me for a little while. I'm so damn tense."

The brunet nation's heart melted. "Of course, _Sch__ä__tzchen_." They walked to the patch of sun coming in through the window and Austria supported his surly friend.

"You can stop with the silly nicknames."

"Shh," Austria whispered. "It's such a delight to me to call you pet names. I – whenever we're apart, I feel very uncomfortable, so I want to make it up to you when we're together."

"Do you mean when we're not together? Or when we're not dating each other?" Switzerland pulled out of the hug and gave him a very nasty look.

"Well, don't give me such a mean look! You just broke up with _America!_" Austria pouted.

"Yes, and why was America available? Because _you_ broke up with him!" Switzerland, now angry, poked Austria in the chest fiercely. "Why did you go out with him?"

"Well, why did you?" Austria folded his arms and turned away.

"This is a stupid discussion."

"You started it."

"Shut up, Austria. If you can't calm down I'm leaving."

"Fine. Go. Maybe I'll call America while he's in the hospital and see if he's missing me." Austria sniffed haughtily.

There was no sound from behind him, until he heard the door slam. "Oh, Switzerland, you idiot," the dark-haired nation moaned. "Now we're going to go through all this, all over again."

Sadly he packed up his belongings, and in a fit of anger he threw all the free pens all over the room. He hoped this would make France as angry and depressed as he was right now.

Austria left Room K and headed towards the room he and Switzerland were sharing. Ha, that was going to be uncomfortable. He wondered whether they would be able to make up tonight or if Switzerland's temper was going to drive them apart again. "He's so temperamental!" he muttered, climbing the stairs.

Prussia and Denmark passed him on their way down. "Hey, Austria, where's Swissy?"

"Don't talk to me about Switzerland," he moaned, pushing past them. "In fact, don't talk to me at all, Prussia."

"Kesesese! Okay! We're going to the awesome Eiffel Tower anyway."

But Austria continued upstairs, ignoring the albino.

The small French hotel room was empty. He sighed in depression. Why did Swi—_Swissy_ have to be so difficult? "Why do you have to be so damn difficult?" he asked his absent friend.

But – "What?" The blond's voice came from the balcony. "Did you say something?"

"Nh. No." Austria stuck his nose in the air and he began putting his things away.

"Come out here on the balcony, my friend. I want to apologize."

"You what?" This was so unlike the gun-crazy nation that Austria suspected a prank.

"You heard me. Come out here."

When he got to the balcony Switzerland was staring at the street below, scowling and clenching his fists. "I'm very sorry, Austria. I am in an extremely bad mood, and I don't know why, and I don't mean to take it out on you. Will you forgive me?"

Just on principle Austria sniffed and hesitated, but then he put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You know I can't stay mad at you."

The blond looked up and they smiled hesitantly at one another. "It's a nice night," Austria pointed out. "The sun is still shining. Why don't we waltz together, here on the balcony?"

"Are you crazy? There's no music!"

"There is the eternal music in our hearts."

"That's what _you_ think."

But instead of angering Austria, this made him happy. "That's true. That is what I think. And I think you and I should dance together on the balcony."

"Ugh. Well, I suppose I owe it to you. Will you at least hum or something so I don't feel completely stupid?"

"Of course." Austria gathered him into his arms again and began to hum a waltz. After a few seconds Switzerland got into the swing of things and began dancing quite well. Austria smiled at him and they danced in the sunlight.

"What's the name of this waltz that you're humming? I don't recognize it."

"Oh, it's a new one I'm working on. I call it the Lizard Waltz."

"_Austria!_"

…

_The anagram was "Sun Irradiates Waltz." I just threw the lizard reference in there for the hell of it._


	129. Holy Roman Empire and Prussia

_What can I say? I missed Holy Rome, and I have writer's block, so this seemed like a good way to jolt myself into action. _

…

**Holy Roman Empire/Prussia.**

"Oh, Holy _Rome_~," the albino sang out, dancing into Austria's place. "Where are you, _Liebling_? I have great things to share with you!"

Holy Rome peeked around the corner of the doorway. He was alone and felt ill-equipped to deal with Prussia. Maybe he could sneak awa—

"Ah, there you are_._ Come talk to me." Prussia jumped on the divan and lay back, beckoning. "This is fascinating. Wait until you see what France sent me! Kesesese!" He waved his hand at a beat-up black leather satchel that he'd been carrying for centuries.

Holy Rome tentatively joined him. "What is it?"

Prussia sat up and rummaged through the bag. "Ah. Here." He drew forth a slim printed booklet.

"What _is_ it?" Despite himself, Holy Rome began to be curious. What could be so important that Prussia had to rush over here and share it? It was just a book.

"It's a book about hosiery."

"A – book about – _hosiery_?" Perhaps Prussia was ill.

"Heh heh heh," Prussia replied, sounding much more sinister than when he normally laughed. "_France_ gave it to me. It's a manual for putting on hosiery. Kesesese!"

Holy Rome boggled. "Have you gone insane? Why would you be so excited about a manual for putting on hosiery? Can't you put your own hosiery on by now? You've been around since the thirteenth century!"

"Pfft. This isn't the book about how to put on _men's_ hosiery, silly. It's a manual for women."

Holy Rome moved further away from Prussia on the divan. "Y-you wear women's hosiery?" he whispered, in agony. How did he never know this before? Prussia was decidedly a freak, and France was just as bad, feeding this – this obsession! The blond was tempted to tear the manual out of Prussia's hands and cast it into the fireplace, but –

"Kesesese! I do not wear women's hosiery!" Prussia laughed so hard he fell back against the arm of the divan and fanned himself with the manual. "That is too funny. Even though I'd probably look stunning in it."

"Shut up. Well, then, what are you driving at?" the little nation grumbled. "I don't see the point of all this."

"The point of all this is that it's from France, Holy Rome. Pictures of _women._ Putting on _lingerie."_

"I still don't get it!" he yelled, taking off his hat and smacking the albino in the face with it.

"Stop it, or I won't let you look at all the drawings of pretty naked women putting on lingerie…"

"_Oh,_" Holy Rome realized, now a bit breathless. Though he couldn't tell whether that was from attacking Prussia with the hat, or from the idea of looking through a booklet showing women in fancy French hosiery. He stopped whacking Prussia and fanned himself with the hat, trying to catch his breath.

"Of course," Prussia said, in a very airy tone, "he also gave me a manual showing naked _men_ putting on hosiery. Would you like to look at that one instead, _Liebling_?" He began cackling again, leaning back against the divan, holding the manual just out of reach.

"That would be completely improper! B-but I would like to see the ladies' book," he admitted, unable to stop himself.

Prussia held it out of reach. Damn that albino nuisance! He'd bet, he'd just _bet_ that wasn't even what the book was about, and Prussia had just come over here to prank him somehow. Ever since he'd been the young Teutonic Knights he'd loved to pull pranks, usually on either Holy Rome or Austria. The black-clad nation was just happy that nobody else was home now, to listen to all this.

"Do you really want to see it, Holy Rome?" Prussia extended it to his host and when Holy Rome reached out, the albino drew it away again, laughing once more.

"Oh, get out of here," he snarled, putting his hat back on. "I don't want to read any of your improper hosiery manuals, whether they are men or women! Stuff them – "

"Kesesese!"

"Stuff them _into your old black bag_ and get out of here." Holy Rome hopped off the divan and stood, hands on hips, glaring at Prussia.

"You're serious, aren't you?"

Holy Rome nodded. "Yes. There are limits to my patience and you have exceeded them. Go."

"Aw. You're a spoilsport." He shoved the manual back into the bag. "Can I get a cup of coffee before I go?"

Coffee wouldn't be bad, Holy Rome supposed. "As long as you stop with the stupid commentary."

"None of my commentary is ever stupid," Prussia countered; Holy Rome snorted.

They went into the large dining room together and Holy Rome poured coffee for each of them. When they sat at the table, Prussia sipped the coffee and grinned. "You weren't missing much. Frankly I couldn't understand what France was so excited about. I just came over here to tease you," he admitted. He nudged the black leather bag with his foot.

"I should have guessed." He _had_ guessed. Holy Rome was too grumpy to care. He glanced down at the bag, which was standing open. Hmm. Maybe he could reach in and sneak the manual out when Prussia wasn't looking?

He gently pulled the bag towards him with his foot. Prussia was still daydreaming. Holy Rome knocked his spoon to the floor. He worried that the clatter would gain his companion's attention, but Prussia kept staring out the window.

Holy Rome bent down to open the bag and pick up the spoon. Yes! He was easily able to pull the manual out of the bag. Uh. Looked like he'd grabbed both the men's and the ladies'. Well, he couldn't slip the men's back into the bag, or Prussia would definitely get suspicious. He set them on the floor, covering them with his hat, and put the spoon back on the table.

Prussia popped out of his reverie. "Well, _Liebling,_ thank you for the coffee, but I'm going home. Austria's not here to prank, so this is kind of boring."

"Suit yourself." Holy Rome simply hoped he wouldn't check the bag before leaving. He'd feel like an idiot if Prussia caught him in the act. Oh, why, oh, why hadn't he considered that? He wanted to pull his hat down over his eyes, but it was still on the floor, covering the manuals.

The two nations arose, Prussia scooping up his bag without checking it. Holy Rome breathed a sigh of relief. "It was nice to talk to you, anyway," the albino said. They walked to the door.

When they got there Prussia hugged him briefly. "See you." He walked a few paces and then spun, laughing. "And enjoy those manuals you've got on the dining room floor! Kesesese!" He broke into a run as Holy Rome's face turned an angry red. "Bye!"

"Prussia is an idiot!" Holy Rome yelled, to vent. But at least he still had the manuals. He hurried back to the dining room, first putting the coffee things in their proper place and washing up the used cups and spoons.

When he came back he gingerly lifted his hat and found the two booklets there. In an agony of anticipation, Holy Rome rushed to his bedroom, where he tossed his beloved hat aside and lay on the bed, rolling back and forth and clutching the manuals to his chest. He didn't care if Prussia knew he had them. He was just happy that he'd get to leaf through them! Alone!

In a moment he calmed down and rolled face-down, placing the books on the pillow. He decided to look at the ladies' book first.

France – well, he still hated France, but he had to admit this was a beautifully-done book. The artwork was museum quality, and the women were beautiful. So was the lingerie.

Holy Rome shook his head. It was difficult to focus.

When he'd finished leafing through it he stashed it in the drawer of his bedside table for later. Did he really want to look at the men's hosiery manual? He might as well, if only for the artwork.

Holy Rome opened the manual. "What?" It was filled with cheeky sketches of France in various pieces of women's lingerie, and had the words "_BON JOUR_, HOLY ROME!" scrawled across the first picture. "Damn that freak!"

But he finished looking through the booklet anyway, face burning.

…

_Today's anagram was "Improper Hosiery Manuals."_

_And now we know why Germany gets porn from Finland at Christmastime._


	130. China and England

**China/England.**

"Why do we get stuck doing this work-aru?"

"Because you're a bloody idiot? Every time America brings up this topic you always, _always_ react the same way, and it gets Russia pissed off, and he destroys the room. Of course Francy-pants just runs away, the wanker."

China was very irritated as he and England worked to set the destroyed room to rights. "I don't think you can totally blame it on _me_-aru. You did your fair share of messing things up."

England sighed, lifting up chairs that had been knocked aside and setting them upright. "America drives me up the wall, it's true," he confessed, "but this was entirely your fault today, git. Entirely." He glared at a long groove in the tabletop that had been gouged by the ice pick.

The Asian nation swept up some broken glass from a lamp and dumped it into the large wheeled trash can that America had sent along. "I'll admit that when it happened in Stalingrad it was my fault-aru. I just couldn't stand the way Russia was reacting, and America's comments were like a match to the fuse-aru. But today it was all your fault."

"Russia's the one who destroyed the room! Don't blame me." England made sure all the chairs were pushed under the table and then moved to a bookshelf that had fallen. "Come help me shift this bloody bookshelf."

China set down the broom he'd been wielding. "Sure." They bent down to grab the sides of the shelf. "One – two – three – heave-aru!" Together they stood the heavy oak bookshelf back in its correct place.

"Look at that," the island nation now noticed, turning in place to look at the walls. "He even knocked all the sodding pictures askew."

"I'll fix them. You put the books back on the shelf-aru." China moved to readjust the paintings; England knelt to begin picking up books.

"Is bloody America coming back to check on this? Maybe we could just leave."

"We do have another meeting tomorrow afternoon-aru. He'd see it then. How stupid are you?"

"Shut it. Hurry up with those pictures and get back here." England began scooping up books and reshelving them. He'd be damned if he was going to try to get them arranged the way they'd been before the fall, though. America should just be happy that his books were getting reshelved at all. He sighed.

China finished straightening the paintings and came over. "Maybe after this we can go out for Chinese-aru?"

"Sounds all right to me. Better than bloody hamburgers." The island nation peered around the room. "You didn't do a very good job with the paintings. Keep working on the books. I'll go angle them properly." He stood up, dusting off his knees.

China snarled at him. "The paintings are perfect-aru! Just leave them and come back to work on the books!"

But England was already adjusting a painting; this one was of blasted George Washington crossing the Delaware. "I hate this painting," he growled, knocking it off-kilter again and moving to the next one.

This was a reproduction of the Statue of Liberty. "Gah!" he yelled, and smacked it right off the wall.

"England-aru! What are you doing? You're just making things worse. Lend a hand with these books-aru."

"Yes, all right, all right," he grumbled. The two of them changed places.

China had managed to get the lower two shelves sorted out, so now the blond had to continually bend over and pick up books from the floor, then rise to shelve them, and all this bending was making his back hurt and irritating him. "Done with the bloody paintings yet?"

"Not yet-aru! I only have to angle this one an inch or so, but it keeps slipping." China kicked the wall, apparently irritated, and the painting in question slipped again.

England abandoned the books and came over, studying it. This one was a repro of that silly "American Gothic." The island nation snorted. "Doesn't he have any classic paintings? Why do we always have to meet in this room packed full of Americana? He's such a showoff!"

"Just stop with the commentary and help me adjust it-aru."

The blond held the painting while China stepped back to observe it. "Nope. Angle it an inch to the left."

England tipped it.

"No-aru! To the left!"

"That was to the left, you brainless git."

"Go work on the books. I'll get the painting angled correctly." China shoved England out of the way.

"Idiotic, stupid, moronic –"

"Are you speaking to me-aru?"

"Not _to_ you, no," England smirked, still shelving books. "Got that picture straight yet?"

"No. Switch places."

With a hugely melodramatic sigh, the blond abandoned the bookshelf yet again and came to fix "American Gothic." "Go work on the books."

China dutifully left to go work on the books. The lower three shelves were sorted, so he had to bend even more than England had. The island nation watched this with a grin for a moment before turning his attention to the painting.

He reached up and tilted it an inch to the left. "There."

China scanned it. "Yes. You angled it properly. Thank you-aru."

"No problem." He sat at the table and put his feet up.

"Hey! What are you doing-aru? Come help me finish this."

"Oh. Right." The blond rose and hurried to China's side, although there were only a few books left to replace.

When they were done, each of them surveyed the room to make sure the cleanup was complete. "That painting – it's still not right-aru. It just needs to be angled a little bit more to the left."

"You do it, then, git. I'm sick of this. Or let bloody America deal with it tomorrow." He gathered up his papers and shoved them into his battered brown leather briefcase.

"Good idea-aru. Come on, there's a Chinese place down the road." China grabbed his folio.

"Ha ha ha ha!" they heard from the other side of the door, and America slammed the door open. When it hit the wall, all the pictures slipped out of alignment, and the bookcase fell over again. "Whoops."

China and England took one look at each other and fled. "America, you tosser!"

…

_The anagram was "Angled an Inch." I actually started the chapter with the anagram "Cleaning Hand" (as in, lend a hand while cleaning), but it seemed too awkward, so I went looking for another one and got "Angled an Inch." I know both are weak, but China and England looked so cute in the new artworks that I wanted to do something featuring them both._


	131. Japan and Italy and Germany

**Japan/Italy/Germany.**

"I am quite fond of visiting the cosplay station," Japan told his Axis friends. "I know your brother has been here, Germany, but I am not sure whether Romano-san has visited." He turned to Italy. "Do you have an idea of what costume you'd like to wear?"

"Ve, I want to dress up as a woman!"

Germany hid his face, and Japan blushed deeply, unable to think of a coherent answer. "Uh – uh?" he faltered.

"Oh, yes. America was telling me about his Playboy Bunnies, and their costumes sound so cute! I bet I'd make a cute bunny girl, ve, Germany?"

Germany let out a strangled "ngh" without uncovering his face.

The three friends got out of the taxi and headed into the cosplay station. "A-are you certain that is how you wish to dress, Italy?"

"Why not, ve? It's just for fun, right? And I'm here with you and Germany! Nobody will hurt me with you two around."

Germany finally managed to straighten up and take his hand away from his burning-red face. "Wh-where do we go for these, ahem, _costumes_, Japan?"

"This way." The host nation led them to a costume room, still somewhat unnerved about Italy's decision.

Veneziano immediately leaped towards the racks of clothing. "Ve, ve! Look at all this stuff!" He pulled out a pink outfit, but it was a Tinkerbell costume. "That's no good."

"England would like it," Germany laughed. "Though I'm not sure he'd wear it." He too began to rummage through the racks. "Do you suppose there are ninja costumes here? I had a samurai costume once, for that party of mine last summer, and it was excessively heavy and hot. I admire your samurai for their devotion to such heavy armor, but I really do not wish to don something like that for cosplay purposes."

"That is a very good idea, Germany. Yes, there should be plenty of ninja costumes. Try this rack." Japan pointed to a rack opposite the one Veneziano was pawing through; Germany headed towards it. It was loaded with costumes in black and grey.

Japan himself moved to yet a third rack. This one had brightly-colored clothing for girls, like sailor costumes and school uniforms. He did not really want to dress as a sexy schoolgirl – for one thing, he felt very vulnerable with his legs exposed in a skirt, especially the short flippy kind that were here – but he'd promised Hungary some photographs, and he knew she'd be happier – and more willing to return the favor – if he too participated. In that respect he hoped Italy _would_ dress as a bunny girl. Hungary would owe him for years!

He pulled a Catholic schoolgirl costume off the rack. "I'll be in the changing room," he announced to his friends, face burning.

"Very well," Germany replied. "I'm almost done here."

"Ve, I found just what I want! I'll come with you, Japan!" With an armful of red satin, Veneziano followed him into the changing room; Germany strode along behind with a grey outfit in hand. "You're going to look so pretty, Japan, ve! I didn't know you liked to dress up like a girl!"

Japan felt his face aflame, but he was among friends, so he plastered a small, enigmatic smile on his face and turned his back to get changed.

The sounds in the changing room grew louder as other patrons entered, as people discarded their streetwear and changed into their costumes. Japan pulled on the long white blouse and buttoned it up, shrugging into the accompanying blazer, before rushing to slip out of his uniform trousers and into the pleated plaid skirt.

"Ve, Japan, that doesn't look so good."

"Why not?" He dared to turn in place, although he was intensely embarrassed, to see what Italy was talking about. The half-nation was half-dressed, wearing black fishnet tights and high heels with the bunny ear headband, and nothing else. With one hand, Japan hurriedly pinched his nose shut to prevent a nosebleed; with the other, he quickly snapped a photo using his latest point-and-shoot with autofocus.

"Your underwear is sticking out!" A laughing Italy took the camera from his hands and took a photograph of Japan. "You should just take it off, or put on a pair of girls' panties. It looks a bit silly that way."

Japan didn't know what to do. "Ah, I – I will simply roll up the legs of my trunks," he managed, bending forward to do that, and hearing the click of the camera shutter behind him. Oh, dear, oh, dear…

"Italy!" Germany now croaked out. "What are you wearing?"

Japan sneaked a peek to see Germany wearing a grey ninja costume; his muscles were dramatically outlined by the too-tight spandex fabric, giving him the look of an American superhero in tights. The Asian nation ducked his head again. He did not want to be caught staring, but Italy still had the camera!

"Ve. I forgot about the bodysuit and the collar and cuffs. Here, Germany, hold the camera while I put it on." He handed the blond the camera and reached for the red satin bodysuit.

Germany tried to act nonchalant as he snapped some pictures of his cowardly young friend, but Japan could see that he was fighting a blush. He reached out and grabbed the camera from Germany just as Italy finished pulling up the bodysuit.

"Ve. I'm not as well-endowed as these Playboy Bunnies, am I?" Veneziano turned to check on his fluffy bunny tail and was apparently satisfied. He reached for his socks and stuffed one into each side of the bodice. "There! Look, Germany! Look, Japan! I have boobs!" He posed cheekily, bent forward with his hands on his knees, smiling up at his friends.

"Y-you shouldn't stand that way," Germany muttered.

"Ve? Why not? Oh," Italy misunderstood. "You can see the socks when I do that. Right." He pulled the socks out and struck the pose again. "I think I'd rather be flat-chested and pose the way I want."

Japan meanwhile had been madly taking pictures of both his friends.

"Ve!" Veneziano realized. "We won't have any pictures of you! Germany, take a picture of me and Japan together, will you, ve?" He took the camera and handed it over.

"P-p-pose the way you want to pose," the blond told them.

Japan stood with both hands trying to pull the hem of the skirt lower, and Italy arched his back, sticking his chest out towards the camera with his arms behind him. "How do we look, ve?"

"Very nice. Ahem." Germany took a few photos. "Japan, stand up straight, will you?" he then demanded. "You look exceedingly foolish doing that."

Japan reluctantly let go of his skirt and stood up straight. Italy immediately stepped closer, sliding an arm around his waist, which he then proceeded to rub on the fabric of the skirt. "Ve, this fabric is quite nice, Japan. Very soft." Seemingly oblivious to the effect this rubbing was having on Japan, Italy kept moving his hand back and forth over his hip and bottom, and Germany kept taking photo after photo.

"Enough," Japan finally said, when his discomfort had gone beyond reasonable limits. "Allow me to take some photographs of the two of you together."

"Ve!" Veneziano leaped into the air, his silver high heels sparkling. "Come here, Germany! Let's give each other a great big hug." He threw himself at Germany, raising one heeled foot into the air as he snuggled close to his burly blond friend.

Germany, in the grey ninja suit, could only blush and stammer; automatically he clasped his hands in front of his privates, and Japan hurriedly snapped all the pictures he could get. Hungary was going to owe him an entire year's GDP for this night's work!

…

_The anagram was "Grey Ninja Playmate."_


	132. Allied Boys

_I guess I won't close out this story. Every now and then it's like therapy._

_..._

**Allied Boys.**

"France, you have some of the weirdest shit in the world in your meeting rooms," America said, laughing, as the Allies entered the large room. "Look at that! Silk pillows! Who needs silk pillows in a conference room? Weird, I tell you."

England snorted. "At least it's not a paean to his own supposed greatness. 'American Gothic' and 'Washington Crossing the Delaware'? Git."

"You do have too much junk in your conference rooms-aru. France and America both."

"Oh, like you're one to talk, dude? You have all those tea sets and knick-knacks all over the place!"

"Da, I've always wondered why you have so much gimcrackery in your meeting rooms, China."

"How did this get to be all about me-aru? We were talking about America!"

"We were talking about the blasted frog. Where did he go, anyway?"

The four remaining Allies looked around the room, finding a complete lack of frog. "Well, that's weird," America finally said.

England grabbed a chair. "Sit down. He's bound to be back soon."

"What is _that_-aru?" China screeched, pointing at something on the table. "It looks like a dead rat!"

Russia used the end of his ice pick to lift up the brown furry object. "I don't even know," he said with a smile. "It's quite unusual."

"Don't get it near me, man."

Of course Russia swung the ice pick towards America, who jumped back with a forced laugh.

"Is it some kind of dead animal? I wouldn't put it past the wanker."

"Maybe he's hiding and watching us to see who freaks out about it-aru. Like a test." China sat down and affected nonchalance. "Set it back down and ignore it. Act calm. Then he'll be thwarted."

"Da, a good idea." Russia lowered the item to the tabletop and took a seat. "But it didn't appear to have a face on it. So I don't think it's a dead animal."

"Shut it, Russia." England put his head in his hands.

America too finally sat down, as far from the mystery fur item as he could get without looking like a coward. It really was rather strange-looking. And France was still not here. "Where is he?"

"_Bon jour, mes amis_," the host nation said, sweeping dramatically into the room and tossing a rose at England, who swatted it aside; it fell on the floor. "Are you all enjoying the lovely conference room? I recently redecorated it. Pick up that rose, _Angleterre._"

"Too much junk in here, frog-face." England picked up the rose and threw it in the enamel trash can.

America waved his hand, not wanting the discussion to come back to the strange furry item. "Whatever, man. Just get on with it. We have a long agenda today."

"_Bien,_ let's start with Ardennes." France moved to a large map on the wall.

For several hours the five nations bickered, argued, and occasionally set forth coherent and logical suggestions. America tried to participate, and every now and then he'd manage to do so, but that strange thing was still on the table and he couldn't quite drag his full attention away from it.

Finally they broke for a late lunch. Servers wheeled in carts of lunch, including a big coffee urn. Both France and Russia went straight for the coffee, while China and England brewed tea. America wasn't sure what he wanted, so he sat and watched all the activity before getting up and filling a plate with food. It was hungry work, being a hero.

Before he sat down he poured a cup of coffee for himself. When he got back to his seat, he set the cup on the table.

"_Am__é__rique_! Don't put the cup right on the table! Use a coaster or something. This table is six hundred years old." France looked around the room in desperation, but although there were useless and decorative items all over the place, there were no sensible items like coasters. The other Allies were using note pads as coasters, but America hadn't been taking notes.

"Take off that bloody jacket and use it as a coaster."

"Ha ha! No way, man. This bomber jacket is much too awesome to do duty as a coaster. Give me your note pad."

"Forget it, git! Get your own note pad!"

"Damn it, England, will you just –"

"You two are at it again, da? Give him the note pad, England."

"I jolly well won't! He's a grown man – or so he keeps trying to tell us. Let him come up with something on his own."

"Now, now, _Angleterre, _don't get so cranky."

"You stay out of this, Francy-pants."

"Hey," China suggested. "Why don't you put your coffee cup on the dead rat-aru?" He used his note pad to slide it towards America.

"Urgh, no," the hero said.

But France interrupted. "Dead rat? _Dead rat?_ _Merde,_ I am dealing with a group of idiots. Where is there a dead rat in my beautiful conference room?" He tossed his hair over his shoulder dramatically.

"It's not a dead rat," Russia told him. "We couldn't find a face on it." He gestured towards the item with his pen.

"Stop talking about it, dude!" America tried to push it back towards China, but he had nothing to push it with except his coffee cup, and he didn't want to get – get _dead rat germs_ on his cup! He settled for backing away from it.

"Rats carry plague, you know," England put in nastily.

"Drop dead, England!"

France walked closer to examine the object. "Oh! That's where it got to. Hard to see it on the dark wood table. Yes, you can certainly use that as a coaster, _Am__é__rique,_ although it's quite expensive and rare, and probably not very absorbent." He pushed it closer to America, who backed off once again.

"Wh-what is it?" he asked. The other Allies held their breath, too, waiting for the answer.

"Oh, it's part of a collection of doilies that were originally in use at Versailles. I've been salvaging things like that to use elsewhere, so more people can appreciate them. Beautiful, _non?_"

"D-d-_doilies_?" everyone chorused.

"Yes! They're made from fur pelts, many from my beloved Canada. This one is made of sable."

Dumbfounded, the four other Allies could only alternate staring between their host and the sable doily.

In the end, America chose not to drink any coffee at all.

…

_The anagram was "Sable Doily."_


	133. England and Romano and Prussia

_This is somewhat of an experiment for a new story I'm thinking of, but it's also a funny anagram._

…

**England/Romano/Prussia.**

It was a beautiful April day, sunny and fresh. Three impeccably-dressed little boys sat in the back yard of their grandmother's house, plucking grass from the yard and grumbling to each other. Today was Arthur's eighth birthday, and his parents had promised to take him and his cousins Gilbert and Lovino to the circus. Unfortunately, Arthur's father had gotten into a car accident, and his parents had gone to the hospital, while leaving the children with Grandma.

Arthur had, of course, asked Grandma to take them to the circus instead, since it was his birthday and they were supposed to go, but she'd said no. She believed the circus was a waste of money and time. In vain the birthday boy had pleaded; Grandma stood firm.

After a hasty powwow outside, Gilbert took a turn. He could frequently charm Grandma into doing whatever he wanted, with his sunny nature and manipulative ways (unlike both Arthur and Lovino, who tended to throw tantrums and make her lose her temper). "I'll go talk to her," the albino boasted.

"Be nice," Arthur cautioned him. "If you're too cheeky she won't take us."

"Bastard" was Lovino's only contribution to the discussion. As soon as he said this all three of the boys burst into giggles. They'd been experimenting with cursing lately, and Lovino had settled on this word as his special, private bad word. Nobody else was allowed to use it.

"Kesesese! Okay! I'll be a charmer." Gilbert scampered into the house, dusting his hands on the seat of his black suit as he ran.

"It'll never happen," Arthur moaned, plucking more grass and flinging it around. "My birthday – the one nice day of the whole year – and this had to happen."

"What do you mean, the one nice day of the whole year? What about _my_ birthday? That's better. Or Christmas."

"Don't be so stupid, Lovino. You know what I mean." Arthur sighed. "Grandma's a scrawny old stick."

"Piss on Grandma," Lovino whispered, and they started laughing again.

"Grandma's a stringy old git."

"Grandma's a – well, she can't be a b-bastard, can she?" Lovino wondered.

"Nope." They thought about this for a moment.

This intellectual discussion was interrupted by a loud clanging and banging inside the house. "What the heck is he doing in there? I mean, h-hell. What the _hell,_" Lovino stammered, trying to sound badass.

Gilbert came running out, clutching his rear end and yowling. "Ow! Ow! Not awesome, Grandma!" he called out over his shoulder.

"What did she do?"

"She hit me in the butt – I mean, she hit me in the _ass_, kesesese, with a frying pan! Skinny old biddy."

"What did you _say_? You must have really gotten her angry! She usually saves that frying pan for Grandpa."

"I just asked her if we could go to the circus later. I didn't even say we had to go now." Gilbert sat back down and ripped off his clip-on bowtie, flinging it away. "I hate this dumb outfit. I hate that frying pan, and I hate nasty old Grandma."

"Piss on the scraggy old trout," Arthur said in his most exaggerated Cockney accent, and his cousins giggled. He nudged Lovino. "You go try."

The brunet looked troubled. "I don't know. What if she tries to h-hit me with the pan?"

"Yeah," Gilbert agreed. "You'd never be able to talk her into it. Your dumb brother's the only one she ever listens to." All three of them groaned, thinking of the suckup Feliciano and his babyish (yet effective) ways.

Lovino cleared his throat. "Forget about him. I can do it." He stood up and fixed his tie before clenching his hands into little fists. "I'm going to go in there, and nicely ask her to take us to the circus. And if she says no, I'm going to – to call her a bastard!" he decided, running off.

"You can't call her that! She's a lady!" Arthur yelled, and Lovino waved without turning.

Arthur and Gilbert stood up and waited, suddenly confident that Lovino could win where they had failed. "Think he can do it?"

"Don't know," Gilbert said, biting his nails. "She was in a pretty bad mood."

"I wonder why? The circus is really fun!" Arthur nodded vigorously.

"I've never been there," his cousin pointed out.

Arthur blushed. "W-well, neither have I, but it always sounds fun in books."

Lovino came screaming out of the house faster than they'd ever seen him run; he ran right past them, continuing to scream, and Grandma came rushing out of the house with her frying pan. "Lovino Vargas, you get right back here! You don't use that kind of language around me!" She chased him, but he was too far away.

Grandma stopped and looked around, and when she spotted Arthur and Gilbert just standing there, she raised the frying pan and headed towards them.

"Run, Arthur! Run!" Gilbert ran one way, and Arthur the other, and Grandma was so confused that she stopped running and flung the frying pan down on the grass.

They ran far enough to escape her reach and then doubled back to meet up with Lovino, who had climbed a tree in his hurry to get away from her. From this vantage point they watched her pick up the pan, scowl around the yard, and stomp back into the house.

It wasn't until the door had closed behind her that they felt it was safe to talk. "Wh-what did you say to her, Lovino?"

The brunet spat on the ground in what he thought was a manly way, before dropping down out of the tree. "I just asked her to take us to the circus. I was really nice about it! B-but when she said no, I got mad and said, 'Piss on you, you bony old woman!'"

Gilbert and Arthur sucked in their breath dramatically. "Sh-shit," Gilbert eventually managed. "No wonder she was so mad."

"You're dead," Arthur agreed.

Just then Arthur's parents pulled up in the now-crumpled car. "Hello, boys!" his father called, leaping out of the driver's seat. "Ready to go?" They ran over in delight, and Arthur's father picked him up, swinging him around in the air before setting him down. "Lovino, why don't you run inside and fetch Grandma? We'll take her to the circus with us!"

…

_The anagram was "Piss on our lean Grandma." Grandma and Grandpa are Hungary and France._


	134. Romania and Iceland

_In "Exit Strategy" these two are best friends, so I thought it was time for an anagram. I got TEN good anagrams before giving up reading the list and choosing one for this chapter, so…there will probably be more, at some point._

…

**Romania/Iceland.**

"Iceland, I am _so excited!_ I'm going to be on American Idol!"

Iceland boggled. "What? You're not even American! And as a nation you shouldn't be trying to take spots away from real Americans. What are you up to?"

Romania beamed and adjusted his top hat – a bright blue one today, with a yellow band – more securely on his head. "That's the brilliant part of it, Ice. You get to be on it with me."

"_What?_ Seriously? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Listen, just calm down, all right? Just listen." Romania sat opposite his friend in the warmth of the Icelandic hot spring. "I wrote a song for us to perform, a song that celebrates our friendship. You'll do it with me, won't you?"

On a nearby rock, Mr. Puffin clacked his beak together, as if he were laughing; Iceland darted a nasty look at him before turning back to Romania. "You really are serious?"

"I really am serious."

"But American Idol is a show for Americans! Why should we even be on it?" Iceland was baffled by a lot of aspects of this discussion.

"Why not? America pulled some strings for us. Anyway, it's just to have fun. We can be on television, and sing our song, all dressed up, and then be done?" His fang glimmered in the light reflected off the water's surface as he smiled sweetly.

"W-well, I – I guess so." Iceland reached a wet hand up to scratch his head. "I suppose it depends on the song, you know. I don't want to go on television singing some really idiotic song."

"Pfft. You have no faith in my songwriting abilities? I used the music to 'America the Beautiful.' I think that will sway the judges in our favor." Romania waggled his eyebrows.

"That's wrong, though. It could easily be that this would offend them, because you're using their famous song for such a frivolous thing, and twisting it to your own lyrics."

"Iceland, Iceland. You worry too much. Come on. Let's get out of the hot spring and go to your place, and we can read the lyrics and practice singing." Romania hugged him.

"All right. Don't let that top hat fall into the water. That would be littering."

"My top hat? Litter? You're cruel to me sometimes, my friend."

Iceland blew him a kiss. "If you want me to go on American Idol with you, you have to put up with me."

"I know. I know."

…

Iceland had to concede that the lyrics were cute. He had a piano in his house, and was able to plunk out the melody with one hand while Romania snuggled up to him on the bench and bellowed the new words at the top of his voice. He tilted his head so far back that his hat fell off, repeatedly, and after fetching it seven or eight times he eventually gave up and let it lie on the floor. "~Our joy in friendship lies~!"

"Could you please sing a little more gracefully?" Iceland was a bit peeved, mostly from having the loud song poured right into his ear. "You're never going to win anything if you keep squawking like a wounded elephant." He reached for his glass of Brennivín and drank deeply. Romania didn't care for the stuff; he was drinking red wine.

"A wounded elephant!" Romania hit him in the arm. "Some friend you are. You need to be a little more excited about this. Nobody's going to vote for us if you stand there singing like some sour old – old – "

"Old what? You can't even think of anything!"

"Whatever. You know what I mean."

"Romania?"

"What?"

"Are other nations going to be on the show, on the same day?" Iceland had just realized that it might be some special event, where only nation personifications were allowed to participate.

"Not that I know of. Oh, America said he'd stop by, but I think other than our song, it's just going to be a regular episode."

"All right. When is this epic thing supposed to take place?" He reached for the Brennivín again and drank.

"Tomorrow."

Iceland sprayed his drink all over the piano. "Damn it, Romania! Look at this!" He ran to the kitchen to fetch some cleaning cloths. "Here, help mop it up."

Romania was contrite as he helped wipe down the piano. "Sorry. Guess I shouldn't have told you. I – I hope this disgusting stuff doesn't eat holes in your piano!"

Iceland wasn't worried about that. "Are you nuts? _Tomorrow?_ Do we even have time to get there? I mean, come on! I'll never have these dumb lyrics memorized by tomorrow! And – and I have nothing appropriate to wear!"

"'Dumb lyrics'?" Romania snarled, fang visible. "What do you mean by that?"

Uh. "Sorry. They're not dumb. They're pretty good, actually. But – but tomorrow? We really can do this by tomorrow?"

Romania smirked. "We can indeed, because I already have an outfit ready for you!"

Uh-oh. "What outfit?"

"Don't look so scared. Man, sometimes you are just too damn conservative. Come see."

Iceland threw the wet cloths into his laundry basket as they passed, continuing into the guest room. When Romania opened the closet, he actually stepped back a pace. "Wh-what?"

"Oh, come _on._ These are gorgeous! Mine is the red, white, and blue one, to match your flag, and yours is the red, blue, and yellow one, to match mine. See? Then everyone will understand the depths of our friendship!"

Iceland groaned. "Yellow makes me look sick."

"Hey, what are you saying? You're sick of our friendship?" But Romania burst into giggles after that. "Here. Try it on. I'm glad we're the same size."

The two nations tried on their outfits. Iceland had a top hat, too, for this gig. With _sequins. _Damn, he looked like a fool. But – but Romania _was_ his good friend, and his good friend was beaming so happily at him that he knew he'd go along. Go onto American television, in front of those judges, and sing Romania's goofy song. Well, it was only for one night. He'd do it. He smiled at his friend, who adjusted his new Icelandic-colored top hat, and suggested they go practice some more, in their outfits.

…

The next night both of them were slightly jittery before going on stage. America had come to see them, and he gave them a wink and thumbs-up as they walked out onto the stage with him. "These are some of my friends," he laughed, to widespread applause. "Let's make 'em welcome!"

Iceland bit his lip as they faced the sea of audience members. America shook their hands and moved to the side of the stage as the music began.

"Romania, and Iceland, too,  
>Are very good true friends,<br>We stick together through thick and thin  
>Accomplishing our ends!<p>

"We'll always have this friendship true  
>Though massive glaciers melt;<br>We share our time in fun and rhyme  
>No matter what we're dealt.<p>

"Romania, and Iceland, too,  
>We praise them to the skies,<br>A brotherhood of strength and good,  
>Our joy in friendship lies!"<p>

Yep. Iceland still felt like an idiot, but he gave it his all, and so did Romania. At the conclusion of the song, the audience clapped dutifully, and Romania threw his arms around his friend in a big happy hug. "We did it! Thanks so much, Ice!"

Iceland gave him a little kiss on the cheek. "Come on. Let's get out of here." They joined hands and ran off the stage, waving as they went.

"Whew. I'm glad it's over," the fanged nation laughed, taking off his top hat and fluffing up his hair. "Let's go get something to drink. I asked America to make sure we'd get a recording of it to watch later."

But there was a commotion on the stage. "What's going on?" Iceland wondered.

Then they heard America's voice, soulfully singing the real "America the Beautiful." The audience was hushed. Peeking through the curtains they saw people swaying, crying, hugging each other as the heroic nation sang. Even Romania seemed a bit tearful.

When America finished, there was silence in the auditorium for several seconds before the judges began applauding wildly. "Tonight's winner is America!" someone yelled, and the audience erupted in cheers.

Romania began growling. "Come on. Let's get out of here and go drink some Brennivín," he snapped, grabbing his friend's hand and towing him outside.

…

_Well, believe it or not, the anagram was "An American Idol."_


	135. Romania and Iceland II

**Romania/Iceland.**

"Got that box ready, Ice? Come on, bring it."

"Yes, all right, hold on."

Romania stood and tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for his friend to pick up the last shipping box and carry it into his cold Gothic home. A huge bunch of boxes – both empty and full – stood around the large ballroom, along with a hand cart, packing tape, bubble wrap and labels. The two of them were going to be very busy today.

"I love the Christmas season," Iceland grunted, dropping the final box on the floor, "but this year it's beginning to make my back hurt!"

"Ah, well, sit down and relax for a while. We have all day to get these reboxed and shipped." Romania poured some coffee for each of them and they sat to rest.

"How many boxes do we have to ship out?"

"Seventeen. Romano and Veneziano sent us a _lot_ of macaroni. But we can get all the presents wrapped and labeled, at least. Tomorrow we can haul them to the post office, and there will be one box left for us to share." He blew the grumpy Iceland a kiss.

"Don't call it 'macaroni.' You know they'd be upset. It's _pasta."_

"Well, whatever." Romania sipped his coffee. "It's better than calling them 'noodles.' I thought Romano was going to punch me, that one time."

"Hah. Have to move with the times, my friend. Can't we get the mailman to pick them up? The idea of carting all these boxes around – _again_ – is really annoying."

"Iceland, Iceland. It's only once a year! Calm down and enjoy. Think how happy everyone will be to get a beautifully-wrapped crate of macaroni from us this year."

"Pasta."

"Whatever!"

…

Half the presents were wrapped. "I hope they all appreciate this. Now that we're actually doing it, it seems a bit weird. Pasta for Christmas?"

"_Macaroni,_" Iceland spat sarcastically. "This was all your idea, you know. If nobody likes it, you can't blame me."

"We got a good deal on the stuff, though." Romania drank a little more coffee.

"How much was it?"

"I traded six cases of wine to them."

"You're kidding." Iceland stared at his friend. "And you think that's a good deal? I think you overpaid."

"What are you talking about? Seventeen crates of macaroni? It was an amazing deal. I haven't told you about the ongoing part of it." Romania grinned, exposing his fang. "Every month, they'll send us seventeen crates of macaroni, and you, or I, will send them six cases of wine."

"Romania! What the hell are we going to do with seventeen boxes _every month_?"

"Eat them?" He laid back on the floor, removing today's top hat, a red and green one with white trim in honor of Italy. "I don't know. Maybe I can build a room to store them in. Like a wine cellar, but for macaroni."

"You're an idiot." Iceland lay next to him. "What made you decide you wanted to do this, anyway?"

"Hey, I just thought it would be fun! Something for us to do together. You can have some to give to Liechtenstein if you want."

"Hah. Well, she does like noodles."

"_Pasta,_" Romania snorted, poking his friend.

"Pasta," Ice agreed.

…

January rolled around, and Romania sat staring at the seventeen crates of macaroni on his front lawn. Iceland was too busy to help him store it, and he was absolutely not interested in hauling all these crates into his house!

Aha, he had an idea. He went inside and made a few phone calls, and then came back out with a table, then a chair, and a metal strongbox. "Oh, and coffee," he muttered, scurrying back inside. He brought out the whole pot and sat back to wait.

Half an hour later Germany showed up. "Thank you for calling to offer me this pasta," the tall blond said. "I believe it is Veneziano's favorite. We enjoyed the Christmas crate a great deal." He bought one crate, paying for it with a check.

Romania put the check in the strongbox. "Thanks. Have a great day!" He leaned back in his chair, smiling, as Germany hoisted the crate onto his shoulder and headed away.

Minutes later Belarus drove up. "Give me a crate. Put it in my car!"

"Pay me first," he laughed, showing the fang.

She shuddered but peeled some cash from her handbag and thrust it at him. He stowed the money and lifted a crate of macaroni into her car. "Brother Russia really loved the stuff you sent him for Christmas. Thanks for calling to give me a deal."

"Anytime!" He gave her the change she was due, and she drove away.

He realized that this was a pretty lucrative deal. Six cases of wine didn't cost much. In fact, if he sold two more crates of macaroni at these prices, he'd have made back the cost of the wine!

Austria pulled into the driveway. "Romania! I really appreciate you giving me a chance to get some of this stuff. I know America really likes it and I want to have him over for dinner sometime. And you know what his appetite's like." He paid exact change for a crate of macaroni, which the two of them put into the back of his car. "I'll see you at the next meeting?"

"Good luck with America!" Romania took off his top hat and waved it at Austria's departing car.

Before that car had fully vanished from view, Estonia drew up. "Hi! I'm glad you called about this. I have a date next week at my home, so I want to make something interesting and different. Do I have to purchase an entire crate?"

Romania nodded. "Easier on the bookkeeping that way."

"All right." Estonia pulled out his phone. "I'll do a Paypal transfer. Is that all right?"

"Sure. Money's money." While the visitor was busy completing the electronic transaction, Romania put the crate into the car.

Estonia left after the verification came through. "Thanks again!"

Romania was out of coffee. Hah, he hadn't considered this, but Iceland had actually been the one to send the six cases of wine this month. So technically all this money should go to Ice. But he, Romania, had done all the work! He'd keep the cash. Yeah. Maybe he'd buy something nice for Ice with it. Hmm. A top hat?

Switzerland's car drove up and the Alpine nation, his sister, and Iceland all tumbled out. "Hey! Hey!" Romania jumped up and ran to hug Iceland. "Uh. Sorry, Liechtenstein," he laughed. "But our macaroni deal is really working out well."

"I do love this macaroni," she said; Switzerland just grunted.

But Iceland was staring at the depleted pile of crates. "You're actually selling it? You realize this money is mine, because I sent the wine this month."

"No! I did all the work, all the marketing and sales! I'll keep the money, but I was thinking of buying you a top hat."

"A top hat? Romania, you have to stop putting me in weird clothing. You know I don't wear top hats."

Liechtenstein seemed intrigued. "Romania makes you wear weird clothing?"

"You didn't see our American Idol show?" the fanged nation asked. "We were totally fearsome."

Iceland snorted. "Not us. We did all right, but fearsome? No."

"I did see it. You were both wonderful." She gave Iceland a little peck on the cheek and then turned around. "But where is _Bruder_?"

The three nations looked to see Switzerland driving off in his little car, having taken all the remaining crates of macaroni with him.

Iceland stood in shock. "What? He _stole our macaroni!_ Hey, Swissy!"

"Uh-oh," Romania muttered. Not such a good deal after all.

…

_The anagram was "Deal in Macaroni."_


	136. Liechtenstein and Romania

**Liechtenstein/Romania.**

"Well, as long as you're stuck here," Romania laughed, "why don't you come inside and see my new bathroom? I've completely redecorated. Then, when we're done, we can have some macaroni for dinner and then I'll take you both back home."

"Aren't you worried about _Bruder_ stealing all of your extra macaroni?"

"I'm not worried. If Swissy wants it, Swissy can have it. We already made a profit." He went to the cash box and gave Iceland all the cash that was inside it. "You were right. You get all this money." Romania carefully avoided mentioning that Germany had paid with a check, or that Estonia had used Paypal. _Those _would be his payback for the marketing and sales activities.

"Thanks." Iceland stuffed the cash into the back pocket of his jeans. "Might as well go look at this bathroom. I didn't even know you were redoing it," he said, as Romania picked up the chair and coffeepot.

"Can you carry the cash box?" he asked the girl. She nodded and picked it up. "And you, Ice, will you carry that table back inside? Thanks." Romania swept into the house with Liechtenstein, leaving Iceland to struggle with the table.

The host led her to the kitchen, where he replaced the sleek stainless-and-leather chair and the now-empty coffeepot. "Please excuse me a moment, Liechtenstein," Romania said gracefully, bowing out of the room. His bladder was really feeling the pressure.

In a few minutes he returned to find her peering intently at his dichroic tile backsplash. "These tiles are lovely," she told him. "So many different swirls of color!"

"I do love psychedelic swirls of color," he admitted. "Come upstairs and see the bathroom!" He grinned widely at her, and although her eyes widened, she smiled back.

"But where is Iceland?"

The Nordic nation struggled into the kitchen, dripping with sweat. "I want that check from Germany," he wheezed. "I deserve it for carrying that horrible table around."

"I carried it out, you know." Romania wondered how Ice knew about the check. To distract him, he crooned, "Come up and see the _bathroom"_ in his gloomy voice.

"I hate that gloomy voice."

"But Iceland! It suits him so well." Liechtenstein took the arm that the Gothic nation proffered and they swept out of the kitchen and up the stairs together, listening to Iceland grumble, but follow, behind them.

"Ta-da!" Romania took off his hat and threw it in the air as he opened the door to the newly-renovated bathroom. "Check out _these_ tiles!"

He was not disappointed. Eyes wide, Liechtenstein entered the bathroom in a daze, staring at all the sparkling surfaces. The entire room was covered in 4" square tiles in various shades of blue, evoking an underwater world, and every single tile had rhinestones embedded in it. The light fixture was a crystal chandelier, and even the sink taps had crystals on them. "Ooh!" Liechtenstein cooed. "I wish I could talk Switzerland into spending this kind of money on our house. This is beautiful!"

Behind her, Iceland snorted. "It probably looks better by gloomy candlelight."

"Oh! Aha!" Romania nodded. "Stay here, I'll get a candelabrum." He hurried to his bedroom, where the big ornate iron one stood, with candles at the ready. Quickly he lit them all and hastened back to the bathroom, where Iceland was now leaning against the door jamb but Liechtenstein was still trailing weakly around the large room, fingers tracing every sparkling surface.

He stepped into the bathroom. "Flick off the lights, will you, Ice?"

Iceland lazily did so, watching as the bathroom blazed with the brilliance of a thousand tiny suns. "Ah!" Liechtenstein said, clasping her hands before her. "Oh, Romania! This bathroom is – is _fabulous!_ You know Poland would be so jealous." She caressed the rhinestone tiles again.

"Pfft. Poland will never see it." Hah.

Liechtenstein turned to the gigantic bathtub, rhinestone-encrusted and big enough for a party. "I would like to take a bath in there, with the room lit just by candles," she said dreamily. "Maybe with champagne. I would pretend I was a mermaid in a sparkling underwater cavern."

Romania got a fiendish look in his eye. "Want to have a bath now? It's big enough for all three of us together."

At that, Iceland pushed himself off the wall and walked over to grab the candelabrum. "Forget it."

Even by candlelight Romania could see that Iceland was blushing fiercely. He took the candelabrum back and set it on the wide sink counter. "Why not? You and I take baths together all the time! And I bet you and Liechtenstein take baths together all the time."

"Stop talking about that."

"You take baths with Romania, too?" Liechtenstein crossed to her boyfriend and took his hands. "I think it's wonderful how you two are so close and share everything!"

In a strangled voice Iceland stammered, "B-b-but we're not going to share _you!_"

"Oh. I hadn't thought of it like that." She glanced at the rhinestone tiles sadly.

Romania decided to try again. "Well? You can take a bath in there. Ice and I will stay here and make sure nothing happens to hurt you."

Iceland blushed again. "You're a real pervert! How come I never knew this about you? Let her bathe in peace!"

But Romania burst into roaring laughter at that. "Ice, you are so much fun to tease." He cupped Iceland's face in his hands and planted a loud smacky kiss on the Nordic nose. "I'm not that ungentlemanly. If Liechtenstein truly wanted us to share a bath with her, or to have us sit here together and watch her take a bath, then fine. But you know me, Ice. You know I wouldn't push her something like that." He cleared his throat. "Not to mention how much it would piss _you_ off, my friend."

It seemed that Iceland was beginning to calm down; he nodded. But of course Romania couldn't resist taunting him further. "Or you could take a bath. Liechtenstein and I can have some champagne while we sit and watch you frolic in the sparkly tub." He bared his teeth in a grin and Iceland rolled his eyes.

"Oh, but if you wanted to do that, Iceland, I'd wash you," Liechtenstein offered. "There's that nice sparkly stool for me to kneel on while I bend over the tub and wash your body."

"Enough!" Iceland finally yelled. "Why are you two winding me up?"

"Why not?" Liechtenstein asked him sweetly, giggling a little. "You're very cute when you blush, and I like to see it." She stood on tiptoe to give him a little kiss, and he began to soften again.

"You're both adorable," Romania told them. "Now, come downstairs and we'll have a snack, and nobody needs to go anywhere near the bathroom again."

"Unless we want to," Iceland said with a malicious grin, sliding a hand around Liechtenstein's waist and pulling her close. His other hand snaked out to slide into Romania's hair, dislodging the hat. "We could show her all the _things_ you and I do when we're in the bathtub together," he purred.

All three nations burst into laughter at that. "Come on. Let's go to the kitchen and have some milk."

…

_The anagram was "Rhinestone Tile Maniac."_

_Ahem. Yes. Well. When I mentioned to Skadiyoko that these three had been together at the end of the last chapter, she suddenly decided it was her new OT3, so I planned to anagram all three of them together. Unfortunately, although there were 55,556 anagrams for them, _every single one_ had the word "academician" in it, and I didn't want to do anything with that. When I got "rhinestone tile maniac" for Liechtenstein and Romania, of course I thought of a bathroom, and combining a bathroom with the idea of a threesome…well…I got a little carried away. But I think they make a good OT3._


	137. Turkey and Liechtenstein

_For HimochiIsAwesome. Not part of the regular IceLiech line._

_A word about continuity: I'm starting to get all these canon chapters muddled in my head. Please forgive any references that don't mesh: this story isn't intense enough for me to go back and do a lot of research. (I don't remember if she was dating Ice in the lizard subplot.)_

…

**Turkey/Liechtenstein.**

"Hello, dearest," Turkey bellowed into the phone. "Can I come see you today? I've got something very, very cool to show you! Jappy sent it to me! Are you busy? We can have fun with this thing!"

Liechtenstein cleared her throat. "Wh-what is it? Is it a gift?" She did love getting gifts.

"Aw, yeah, it's a gift to me, but you know I'd love to share it with you. Can I come over? Hah?"

"Yes, please. I'll make fondue!"

"Chocolate! Not that cheesy cheese stuff."

"Chocolate fondue, Turkey. Hurry over!" She blew him a kiss through the phone and hung up.

…

As Liechtenstein bustled around the kitchen assembling the ingredients, she wondered – somewhat nervously – what Japan might have sent. She'd heard – in a roundabout way – of some robot he'd tried to sell to Romano, and that had made her nervous. Of course, all of her own personal robot troubles had stemmed from America, so hopefully whatever Japan had sent wouldn't be as bad. If you considered that America's robots were a lot like that nation himself – loud, fast, and undoubtedly cool (when they worked right) – then maybe Japan's robots would be quiet, efficient, and under control.

Of course, he might have sent Turkey a box of candy or something. But just in case, she was going to change out of her leopard-print heels before he got here. If it _was_ some kind of crazy robot, she wanted to be able to run away!

Liechtenstein hurried to do this before Turkey's arrival. As soon as she had her comfortable ballet flats on, the doorbell rang, and Turkey burst in without waiting for her to come to the door.

Well, thank goodness Switzerland wasn't home! "Hello, my dear one," she trilled, hurrying to greet her guest.

Turkey set down a big box and picked her up, spinning her around with his loud laugh. "You are so beautiful. I'm really happy to see you, even without fondue or Jappy's present!" He set her down and they kissed.

"Is that it in the box? Bring it into the kitchen." She led the way and Turkey deposited the box on the countertop.

"Can I open it now?"

"W-well, what is it?" She tried to peer into the box but it was tall. "Is it going to make a mess? I won't have time for a lot of cleaning before _Bruder_ gets home."

Turkey took off his turban and scratched his head. "Well. I don't actually know. It's cool, but it's a little rusty. I have to wonder whether Japan got this out of some old warehouse or something. It's not really up to his usual quality of gifts." He set the turban on the table.

"Rusty? Oh, dear. We could take it outside and open it? If it flakes rust all over the garden Switzerland probably won't mind, but if it gets in the house he's going to be angry."

"And we don't want Swissy angry at us," Turkey agreed. "Okay. You didn't start the fondue yet?"

She shook her head. "No. Let's go look at Japan's gift."

Together they went into the front yard, Turkey carrying the box. This time he set it on the lawn and Liechtenstein was easily able to bend down and peek through the flaps. "A hen? Is it a sculpture?"

"No, it's actually much more interesting." He lifted the rusty, life-sized hen out of the box and set it on the ground. "It's a robot."

"Uh-oh," Liechtenstein said under her breath, but Turkey didn't hear her.

"It's a robot that can read your mind and do what you're thinking."

"Uh-oh," she said again, this time more loudly.

"Uh-oh what? It's so cool! Watch." Turkey flipped the power switch and the hen began strutting around Switzerland's yard. "Okay. Ready?"

Liechtenstein nodded nervously, grabbing his arm.

Turkey scowled at the hen in concentration, and it began running around in circles. "See? I told it to run around in circles!"

Liechtenstein was still wary and she wished the hen would stop.

It stopped.

"Oh! Did I make it stop?" She turned her wondering face to Turkey's and he kissed her.

"Maybe. Is that what you were thinking?"

"Yes!" She clapped her hands. "Oh, may I try again?"

"Sure, baby. Go ahead." He held her close while she thought fierce thoughts at the rusty hen.

Immediately it began running around in circles again. Then it stopped and began pecking at the grass.

"Did you make it do that, sweetheart?" Turkey's loud laugh rumbled through the air.

"Yes. It's trying to find some lizards to eat."

He frowned at her. "I didn't know you had lizards in Switzerland."

"Normally we don't." But she didn't feel like elaborating, so they watched the hen peck around the grass, not finding any lizards, until it creaked to a halt in mid-step.

"Did you do that?" they asked each other breathlessly.

"Maybe it's just too old. It is very rusty," Liechtenstein pointed out. She wondered what Switzerland would say.

"Maybe." Turkey cycled the power switch again, but nothing happened.

"Does it need batteries?" Braver now, Liechtenstein came to stand beside him and gaze at the robot.

"You know, Japan didn't even tell me! I bet it does. But I don't know what kind. Well, let's go back inside and have our fondue, and I'll send him a text message about it."

"Okay." Liechtenstein took one last nervous glance at the rusty robot in the front yard and then led Turkey into the house.

…

By the time they'd finished the chocolate fondue, Liechtenstein had forgotten her fear of the rusty robot and was pleasantly mellow.

Turkey's phone beeped and he pulled it out. "Okay. It needs triple-Z batteries."

"Triple-_Z_? I don't even know what those are. Maybe _Bruder_ knows."

"I think they're specifically Japanese. I'll have to get some from him. Can I leave it here until the batteries arrive?" Turkey slipped his phone into the pocket of his jacket.

"I don't mind a bit. When Switzerland gets home I'll – "

_Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam!_

"Sounds like Swissy's home," Turkey laughed. "Wonder what he was shoo—oh, damn!"

They ran out to the front porch to see Switzerland running away from the reactivated robot hen. "Help me, little sister! Make this thing stop!"

Turkey and Liechtenstein met each other's eyes and grinned, and they both concentrated on the robot, which began to gain on Switzerland as he ran off the property screaming.

…

_The anagram was "Rusty Telekinetic Hen."_


	138. Denmark and Prussia III

_Special birthday chapter for HimochiIsAwesome, who likes food porn, because her birthday is the 18th, the same day as the awesome Prussia's. This chapter is still T-rated, not M, though._

_For our American readers: a rusk is sort of like Melba toast, something you give to a teething baby to gnaw on._

…

**Denmark/Prussia.**

"Hey, Den, got any rye bread?"

Denmark peeked into his breadbox. "Nope. All out. I have some rusks, though."

"You're kidding. Those are for babies!"

The blond laughed. "Oh, no, they're not!"

"Oh, yes they are!"

"Oh, no, they're not!"

"Why not?" Prussia asked, rather than escalating the stupid argument.

Den pulled the pack of rusks out of the pantry and waved them around in agitation. "They're healthy! They're good for you! Just because people give them to babies doesn't mean that babies are the only ones who can eat them." He took a rusk from the package and began to crunch it. "This is my emergency stash," he mumbled with his mouth full, dropping crumbs. "Sometimes I forget to go grocery shopping, and then I have to rummage around for something to fill me up until I can get to the store."

Prussia shrugged, peeking at the pack of rusks with a doubtful expression. "Okay. Hit me." He put his hand out and Den slapped a rusk into it, shattering it into crumbs.

"Whoops."

"Yeah, that's the problem with rusks," the albino pointed out. "Too crumbly." He managed to scoop most of the rest of it into his mouth and crunched it up.

"Well? Do you like it, or are you just eating it because there's nothing else to eat?"

"Not bad. Needs something else, though. Too dry. Can you butter a rusk?" he wondered.

"We could try it. I mean, I thought your idea of toasted rye bread was ridiculous until I tried it. So maybe buttered rusks could be good." Den got the butter out of his refrigerator and brought it to the table with the packet of rusks. "Sit down."

"Wait, first I want to get some coffee." Prussia poured coffee for both of them and sat. "Hand me the stuff. I'll be the awesome guinea pig."

"Suit yourself, T. K." He pushed the knife, butter and packet across the table.

Prussia selected an unbroken rusk, gently buttered it – "so it doesn't break again" – and ate it.

"What's the verdict?"

The albino continued munching and followed it with a swig of coffee. "Not sure. The butter doesn't melt, so it doesn't get soft like the rye toast did."

"Maybe we should toast the rusk?"

"Kesesese! Thrice-toasted bread!" Prussia hopped up and put a rusk into the toaster.

"Come and sit on my lap while you wait for the toast," Denmark suggested.

"Huh? Well, all right."

"Wait. Take off your clothes."

"Den, are you nuts? I'm not going to sit around naked in your kitchen, eating! At breakfast time?" Prussia raised an eyebrow so high it disappeared under his bangs.

"Yeah, I guess that would be kind of weird. Okay. Just take off your jacket and tie and shirt and stuff. Keep the pants on."

"What's the matter with you today? You're never this blatant." But Prussia began disrobing as requested.

"Nothing's _wrong._ I just thought we could play around a little. There's nothing else to do today. Maybe laundry."

"Hah. So, fooling around with me outranks doing the laundry? Awesome. Kesesese!"

"Oh, shut up," Den grumbled, reaching for him. Prussia was clad only in trousers and boots now.

The toast popped up. "Whoops. Hang on, you beast. Gotta get the toast!" Prussia tried to reach it from where he stood, but it was too far away. He walked over, picked up the hot rusk, and came back to the table; as he reached for the knife, Den grabbed him and pulled him onto his lap, and the rusk broke. "Damn you, Denmark! Now what?"

"Toast another one." Den shoved him towards the toaster.

Prussia tried again, and while he stood by the toaster waiting, he asked Denmark to strip, too.

"Should I get all the way naked? You know I love to be naked."

"Sure. Awesome Viking nakedness is always good to look at."

So Denmark stripped to the buff while Prussia waited for the rusk to pop up.

By the time it was ready, Den was naked and sitting on his chair again; Prussia, still in trousers and boots, came to the table with the warm rusk. "Okay. Don't yank me around, because I want to butter this before it cools off."

"Sit down first," Den begged him.

Prussia sat on his lap and concentrated on buttering the rusk, while the naked Denmark held him and tried to distract him, running a hand over Prussia's back, sliding one hand down the back of his trousers. But the albino was not paying attention to this.

"There we go," he said, holding up two buttered rusks. "Want one? They're really warm."

But before he could answer, Prussia accidentally dropped the warm, buttered rusk onto Den's groin, where it landed butter-side-down and cracked into pieces. "Ow! Damn it!" Denmark pushed him away. "Damn, that butter's hot! Get me some cold water!" He flapped his hands over his vital regions.

"Whoa. Sorry!" Prussia jumped up and got a cup of cold water and a paper towel. First he flung the cold water on Den – making him yelp and turn bright red. Then, when he bent down to towel off the butter and rusk pieces, the blond began to yell again.

"Ow, stop, Prussia, that really hurts!"

"What? It's just a paper towel?"

"You're scraping the rusk pieces across my – my – oh, just give me the damn paper towel." He yanked it out of Prussia's hand and tried to gently – very, very gently – wipe the buttered crumbs from his most sensitive areas.

Prussia stood and watched.

When Denmark had finally finished cleaning himself off, he got off the chair and wiped up all the remaining crumbs with the paper towel and then threw it away. "Damn. That was stupid. And it hurt."

"A lot of drama," the albino agreed.

"No more rusks."

"No more rusks, kesesese! This is exactly why I said I wasn't going to be naked and eat them!"

Denmark peered at himself. "And now I'm all buttery and crumby."

"Shower time?"

"Yes, T. K. It's shower time. Come on."

Prussia promptly forgot about the buttered rusk experiment and ran to the shower with his naked Viking boyfriend.

…

_The anagram was "Penis Rusk Drama."_


	139. Romania and America

_Well, let's try them out in an anagram._

…

**Romania/America.**

"Wow, dude, I'm so happy you said yes to a date!" America bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, completely excited to be dating the fanged nation.

Romania smirked at him, his red eyes gleaming in the light from the street lamps. "I'm happy you asked! I thought you were scared of vampires, and all that?"

"Well, ah, kind of, yeah, but – but you're not actually a real vampire, are you?" Shit. Even he could see how impolite that question was. What a brainless way to start off a first date.

But Romania brushed it off. "Nah, not any more. Have to move with the times, right? Everybody and his monkey knows how to kill a vampire. No point, any longer. Get it? Stake, point? Ha ha!"

America laughed, too. "That's a very weak joke." But he was glad to hear it; he liked his dates to be happy. "There's a lot of money in vampirism," he considered. "All those books and movies…"

"Pfft. Fairy tales. Some night, alone in my big old house, we'll sit in the dark and I'll tell you stories of real vampires that will curdle your blood!" At the word "blood," Romania's red eyes lit up and he swayed forward a little.

"Here's the restaurant," America said hurriedly, gesturing, even though they were still quite a way away from it.

As they seated themselves, he gave his new date the once-over. Definitely handsome. Yeah. He liked the way Romania wore his hair longish. America sighed happily and ordered for them both.

"I'm surprised you'd pick a Chinese restaurant." Romania glanced around the place, which was packed with Asians.

"Well, I know it's good. China used to bring us here all the time, so you know if China likes it that much, it must be good."

"There's a great aroma in here." Romania sniffed the air, smiling a little, exposing the fang. America wondered if he ever bit anyone, when he was being intimate with them. And – and if he did, did it hurt? Did Romania suck the blood? Ooh. His spine began to tingle and he too sniffed the air, just to get that idea out of his head.

"It's the rice. This place makes the best fried rice anywhere."

"Rice?" Romania wrinkled his adorable little nose. "Rice doesn't have an aroma. It's just _rice!_"

"Well, it has an aroma if you put stuff in the pan with it, like onions and chicken and things."

"But that's not the aroma of the rice. It's the aroma of the individual components. Or, you could say it was the aroma of the entire meal."

"I'm telling you, dude, it's the rice! Just smell it when they bring us our food. You'll see." America leaned back in the chair and poured some of the tea. Normally he disliked tea – he could never drink black tea without remembering those stressful times under England's control – but this was green tea, fresh and smoky at the same time, and it was good. "Would you like some tea?"

"Sure." Romania pushed the little cup over, continuing to sniff.

"Man, when you sit there sniffing the air, with your fang sticking out like that, you look like a fox on the prowl!" America started laughing as he pushed the full teacup back.

Romania switched immediately to a much darker, mysterious manner. "What do foxes prey upon?" he asked, low and sweet, widening his eyes flirtatiously and taking America's hand in his.

_Oh_. America's spine tingled again, but in quite a different way. "Rice?" he suggested. "Rice with the delicious aroma of chicken, salt, pepper and onions." Damn it. What a dope he was. Couldn't he be seductive too? He dropped Romania's hand quickly.

But he'd made his date laugh. "Rice with no aroma at all, I tell you!"

"Let's just set the rice discussion aside until it gets here, okay?" America reached over and took Romania's hand again. "I can't help thinking we're getting sidetracked," he began, in his deep and sexy voice, just as the waiter brought their meals. "Damn."

Romania laughed his merry laugh again. "Don't worry about it. We have plenty of time to play together." The waiter put a big dish of fried rice in front of America and a small bowl of steamed rice in front of Romania, along with a plate of egg rolls and cream cheese fried wontons. Then the man headed wordlessly back to the kitchen.

The two nations stared at the rice for a few seconds. "Well? Let's sniff it, and see who's right."

"Okay, America, but if I'm right, you…have to carry me to the movie theatre."

"What?" Not that he couldn't heroically do it, of course, and it would be fun, too. "Well…all right. But what if I'm right?"

"I'll carry you, of course."

Pfft. Romania must be very confident that he'd win. America grinned, lifting the fried rice dish so he could sniff it better, and closed his eyes. "'Kay. I smell the salt and pepper, and the chicken, and definitely the onion. And the egg. There are peas and carrots in here, I know, but I can't really smell them."

"Is that all you smell?"

"Well, yeah!"

"Then I win!" Romania flourished his chopsticks.

"Wait. That doesn't seem fair." America pouted and his date poked a fried wonton against his lips; he ate it. "Oh, those are good. Feed me another one."

Romania grinned. "You don't really have to carry me to the theatre if you don't want to. I knew I was going to win." He offered another wonton and America ate it.

"Cool. But I might do it anyway. I'd like to hold you." Damn! America was blushing, he knew it. Heroes do not blush! To combat this, he took his glasses off and polished them with his tie. This had two good results: one, he couldn't see Romania laughing at him (which he was no doubt doing), and two, it gave him something to do. Plus his glasses would be clean.

"Have an egg roll," his date said, nonchalantly, putting one on America's plate. "I'll carry you to the theatre, don't worry."

America was so shocked he put his glasses back on and gaped. "You couldn't possibly. Look at me, look at you!"

"Are you saying I'm _weak?_"

"No! No. I, uh, I'm just a big guy, you know? I, uh, I didn't mean to sound insulting." And he hadn't! He was still very excited about dating Romania. He'd often eyed him during meetings, but hadn't ever considered himself suave enough to appeal to the nation who had such a dark past. America was robust, and bright, and loud; Romania was secretive, and mystical, and dark. So when that nation had said yes to a date, America's heart had leaped. He had felt – he _still_ felt, if he hadn't screwed it up with that comment – that he was on top of the world, tonight. He darted a little glance at his date. Was Romania stewing over that comment? Regretting the date?

Hah. No. He was sniffing the steamed rice. "I think maybe you have a point," the fanged nation told him. "Sniff this rice. It has a little aroma."

Bemused, America smelled it. Maybe Romania just wasn't the kind of guy to get worked up over stuff like that? "It smells like rice," America said in a wondering tone. "It has its own rice aroma!"

"See! So you win. I'll carry you."

"I'd better not eat too much, then," America sighed, pushing the plate away heroically.

"Eat what you want. Don't you know how strong vampires are?" Romania smirked at him; America, panicking, stuffed a whole egg roll into his mouth.

The rest of the conversation was a little bit stilted. America still felt kind of nervous about possibly saying something dorky, so he kept shoveling food into his mouth; Romania had apparently given up teasing him.

When they went outside, Romania asked him, "Which way is the movie theatre?"

He pointed, worried, and Romania really did scoop him up like a bride. "You see? I can carry you. Now, stop struggling or I'll have to bite you! Ha ha ha!"

America was completely amazed by this, but wrapped his arms around Romania's neck with a blinding grin and let himself be carried to the theatre.

…

_The anagram was "Rice Aroma Mania." Really not much to go on with them. I might have to use human names for the next one._


	140. Prussia, Denmark, England

_An early birthday chapter for Skadiyoko. This follows directly after chapter 108._

…

**Prussia/Denmark/England.**

When England and Romano had finished in the bedroom, the blond got out of the bed. "Want to sleep?"

"Mm, yes, bastard. Thanks." Romano blew him a kiss; the island nation dressed himself and went downstairs to bake.

He'd just pulled the flour out of the pantry when the doorbell rang. Bollocks! He hoped the sound wouldn't awaken Romano. After that stupid fight they'd had in the bathroom, he'd just bet Romano's temper was still near the surface. Even though England had mellowed him with some high-quality lovemaking. He grinned as he headed for the front door.

Gilbert and Denmark stood there. "Hey, awesome Fail Brother, how are you?" Den held his axe and Gilbert a bag from the grocery store.

"What are you two doing here?" England ran his mind over a mental checklist. Nope. Hadn't been expecting anyone. Maybe they were here for Romano?

"Just came to visit! We were out drinking and thought about you."

"Gits. Come in, but be quiet. Romano's asleep."

"What? What for? It's noon already!" The two guests entered and headed to the parlor.

England ignored that. "Want some tea, or anything? Scones? I have a few left from last week's batch."

"Ah! No – no – no thanks," Denmark stammered. "Nope. Got any beers?"

"Why are you wankers drinking so early?"

"I'm just keeping Prussia company. But he's got a big fat tale to tell." Den started snickering and Gilbert punched him in the arm.

"Let's have it, git."

"Well, you see," Gilbert said, flopping onto the couch and scowling, "this morning Veneziano came over to see West." He stopped talking and glanced around the room, setting his grocery bag on the table.

"Yes? Things were so bad between them that you two had to go out drinking?" England was completely baffled.

"Man, just bring us the beers," the cranky Den said, resting his axe against the wall and sitting on the couch.

"Right, okay. Just – just sit tight!" He escaped to the kitchen.

Whew. England was not prepared for this at all. He really, really hoped Romano could deal with it, if he woke up and found his friends here.

With two beers and a cup of tea on a tray he went back to the living room. Gilbert now posed before the cold fireplace, hands behind his back, like a general addressing his troops.

"Well? Here's your bloody beer."

Denmark took a beer and began drinking.

Gilbert narrowed his eyes at the drink, and then glanced towards his grocery bag.

"What's in the bag? And why the hell did you make me fetch beer for you if you're not going to drink it?" England took his teacup and sat in one of the ornate chairs, opposite Denmark.

"Never mind about the bag. That may be for later. So, let me step back a bit." Gilbert began to pace, still periodically eying the beer. "Last week I was at Poland's place. And he – he said I was getting a little tubby." He blushed. "Specifically, he told me I was getting a bit big in the ass." He craned his neck to try and see his own rear end. "But you know Poland. If it doesn't fit into a size six skirt, it's too fat, right? Kesesese! So I ignored him."

England sipped his tea. This sounded like a lot of drama. Why would Gilbert care if Poland thought he was fat?

"Keep talking, T.K. Tell him the rest of it." Den laughed and finished off his beer with an almighty belch.

"You're a pig, Den." Gilbert finally picked up the beer and chugged it. "So anyway." He wiped his lips. "You should get me some more of that, Arthur! It's really tasty!"

"Not until you finish your story. Go on."

"Fine, well, West and Veneziano were getting ready to leave and Veneziano told me I looked a little – ah – " He covered his face.

"'Bubble butt,' I believe was the term he used," Denmark guffawed.

"Well, yes! That little sneak. He actually called the awesome me a – a – a bubble butt!" Gilbert's face was red, and he demanded another beer.

England was happy to oblige; he needed to get out of there before he burst out laughing.

When he came back Gilbert took the tray and drank all the drinks in quick succession. "Hey," Den said. "What about my needs?"

"You can wait, my Danish friend. You're – hic – not the one in the drama sitiat – sutata – situtu – "

"Situation?" England suggested with a smirk.

"Yes, that."

"So this is the entire problem? You've got a lard ass?" Both blonds started laughing.

"Oh, come on, you two!" Gilbert yelled and stomped his foot. "Hey, I need the bathroom. I'll be back."

…

He hurried to the bathroom. Man, he was busting for a pee. He unzipped his fly and prepared – what? Why did Arthur have a plastic cup in his toilet? Well, fuck, he still had to take a piss, cup or no cup. It was floating upright, so he decided to aim at the cup and fill it with his awesome urine.

"Score!" he yelled, after emptying his bladder and filling the cup. But now what? Damn. He wasn't about to reach into the toilet and pull the cup out. The hell with it. Arthur must have it there for a reason. Prussia flushed the toilet and watched the cup flip around in the current for a moment.

"Awesome!" The cup automatically ended up facing upright again. This must be a new game or training thing for his friend. Now he wished he still had to pee so he could try again. He drank a lot of water from the sink, using his cupped hands, but even after seventeen handfuls he wasn't ready to go again yet. Well, no matter. Soon he would be, and he'd come upstairs and play the awesome pissing game again.

He ran downstairs, mentally preparing to get back to the bubble butt discussion. He hoped Romano would wake up soon, too. If there was anyone in the world he could trust to give him the honest truth and pull no punches, it was his friend Romano. "Kesesese!"

"You bounced back quickly," Arthur told him. Of course Den started laughing at that.

"I do not have a bubble butt! Do I?" He tried to look at it again.

"Try this," Arthur suggested. "Face Denmark and bend over."

All that water sloshing around in him, as well as all the beer, made Prussia feel a little dizzy by now, but he did what Arthur said, giving him a fine view of his firm Teutonic ass.

"Whoa!" Arthur yelled; Den snorted his beer and started coughing.

"Cheh. What the hell are you noisy bastards up to now?" Romano, in the doorway, stared at Prussia with a raised eyebrow.

Still bent over, he explained, "We're trying to figure out if I have a bubble butt."

"A lard ass," Den retorted, reaching for a new beer that Arthur must have brought.

"Drunk bastards. Let me see that ass." Romano walked around behind Prussia, chin in hand, considering.

"Well?" Prussia asked, from his contorted position.

"Lard ass," Romano decided, swiping Den's beer and plopping down on the couch with a laugh.

…

_The anagram was "Peeing, Drunk, Lard-Ass Man." Poor, poor Prussia. But he doesn't really have a lard ass._


	141. Denmark and Sweden

**Denmark/Sweden.**

"Okay, Sve, here's the bet. I'll spin the roulette wheel, and we each call out a number. Whoever's furthest from the number the ball lands on has to take off a piece of clothing."

"D'you mean furth'st numb'r o'spaces, 'r furth'st by count'ng?"

"Oh." Denmark scratched his head. "Uh, let's make it furthest by counting, all right? And if we're equidistant, we both have to take something off."

Sweden grunted noncommittally. He and Denmark were fully-dressed: in fact, they were much more than fully-dressed. They often played these kinds of stripping games when they were drinking together, and so both of them had gotten into the habit of overdressing, so they'd have a lot more clothing to take off. Sweden ran down his mental checklist: underwear, socks, of course; shoes, pants, belt, undershirt, dress shirt, tie, tie pin, cardigan, suit jacket, parka, gloves, scarf, earmuffs and hat. And, of course, his glasses. Twenty-one things. Yes. There was no way Denmark would win tonight. And he had a special plan in mind, for when he won. He raised his beer bottle and drank. The fire was roaring already, and Denmark's game room was toasty warm.

He glanced at his friend, who was busy setting up the roulette wheel he kept in the closet. Denmark was similarly-dressed, as far as Sweden could tell, though he couldn't be certain about the undergarments. Hmm. Denmark didn't have earmuffs. He counted up what he could see.

Boots, pants, dress shirt, tie, pullover, coat, gloves, hat. Hmm. That wasn't much. "Y'wear'n und'rwear?" he asked briefly, as Den put the roulette ball on the wheel.

"Of course! I'm wearing – hmm. Let me count." Denmark stood and counted on his fingers. "Fifteen things." He grinned, but Sweden was quietly confident. He had his friend outpaced by a mile!

Sweden grunted again. "Spin," he said, gesturing to the wheel and drinking once more.

"Fifteen," Denmark called out; it was obvious why he'd chosen that, so Sweden went along with it.

"Tw'nty-one."

The ball landed on sixteen. Denmark began cackling, and Sweden took off a glove. "Spin."

The Dane had a drink of beer before rolling the ball again. "Fifteen," he said again; Sweden glared at him. "What? What? Maybe it's my lucky number! I'm sticking with it."

Sweden rolled his eyes and said "Tw'nty-one."

The ball landed on thirty, and Sweden's eyes gleamed behind his glasses as he watched Denmark remove his red, white and black knit hat. "Don't think you're going to beat me," he laughed.

"I will," Sweden retorted clearly. He gestured to the wheel again.

"Fifteen."

"Tw'nty-one." He smirked at Denmark, just because he could, and drank a little beer. It was getting kind of warm in here. Sweden won again. "H'ha," he laughed weakly, giving Denmark a subtle smile.

"Don't think you're going to win this! I'm telling you, I'm an expert at this game. I practice all the time. Even if you're wearing twenty-one pieces of clothing, I'm still going to win." He took off a glove and spun the wheel again.

An hour later they'd polished off a whole case of beer. Denmark was naked from the waist up and had also lost his belt, but Sweden had lost far more. He remained clad only in shoes, socks, underpants and glasses. Six things remained for him, seven for Denmark. But Sweden _had to win!_ He had a good punishment for his friend, and he really wanted Denmark to lose. He gritted his teeth. "Spin."

Denmark, laughing, spun the wheel. "Six."

"Sev'n."

"Do you ever think we're kind of nerdy for doing this?" Denmark wondered, as they watched the wheel spin. He opened another case of beer.

"Huh?"

"Well, it's kind of dorky, you know? Just sitting around spinning the wheel and stripping?" He grinned at his friend. "We could always just do the stripping without the betting?"

"Shut'p." The ball landed on four.

"Ha ha, Sve, you're definitely going to lose tonight, nerdy or not."

Sweden shook his head and took his left shoe off. He'd debated removing his glasses, but he needed to be able to see the roulette wheel accurately, to make sure the Dane wasn't cheating.

And then Sweden wondered just what the hell Denmark planned to make _him_ do, if he won? No, he was determined to win. "Spin."

Sweden won; Denmark removed his pants. He was wearing boxers with Hello Kitty on them! Suddenly Sweden changed his punishment plan; he had a much better idea. He refrained from laughing at Denmark's underwear and gestured to the roulette table again.

Sweden won the next four, so that Denmark was down to the underwear. The Swede pushed his glasses up his nose and grinned almost evilly; yes, he was a little drunk, and so was Denmark, but he liked these little non-threatening games of chance. And they always had fun, when he let himself unbend a little.

"You think you're going to win, don't you? But I can do this!" Denmark spun the roulette wheel and won. "Take off the other shoe."

"Pfft." Sweden did so.

But he started to get nervous as Denmark won the next two. Sweden now had on only his white briefs and his glasses. Denmark, just the Hello Kitty boxers.

Both Nordic nations faced each other ferociously over the roulette wheel. "L't me spin," Sweden demanded; Denmark, laughing and winking, handed him the ball.

He spun the wheel. He and Denmark watched it so intently that they both forgot to call out numbers. "Hah. Guess w're both a lit'l n'rdy."

"Ha, ah, yeah, guess so," Denmark agreed, scratching his head. "Okay. Spin again."

Sweden spun again and lost. He was completely torn. Take off the underwear? Or the glasses? He'd never expected to get this far! He'd had a six-item lead on his friend!

"Whoa, man! This is the closest we've ever been. Okay, take it off, Sve. Glasses or underwear. Whatever you like." Denmark waggled his eyebrows and drank.

Growling, Sweden took his glasses off. This meant he had to stand very close to the wheel, so that he could peer at the little numbers. "Wh't if 'ts a tie?"

"You're serious? I can't imagine it would be a tie. But, all right. If it's a tie, we both get naked. Okay?"

He considered this for a moment. "A'right." He spun the wheel again.

"Fifteen."

"Twenty-five."

"Damn, Sve! It _is_ a tie! We're both five away from the number!"

Sweden didn't trust him. He bent down to peer at the number. It had indeed landed on twenty.

"Well, my friend? Let's strip!" Denmark roared with laughter and peeled off the Hello Kitty boxers, flinging them across the room like a stripper; Sweden, a little more modest, took off his own and set them on the floor. They grabbed their beer bottles and sat on the floor in front of the fireplace, relaxing together.

"S'what was y'r punishm'nt f'r me?"

"I didn't actually have one. I kind of figured you'd win, especially when you said you had twenty-one things on." He laughed again. "Why? What was your punishment for me?"

"F'rst 't was g'ng to be sing'ng _Sång till Norden,_ b't when I saw y'r und'rpants I d'cided t'make y'mew like a cat."

"What? You just want me to me to make some cat noises? Heck, I'd do that even without the bet." Denmark put the beer bottle down and made some passable mewing noises; Sweden petted his spiky hair affectionately. "Why don't you mew with me, Sve? Since it was a tie."

Sweden shrugged and set the bottle down, and the two naked Nordic nations mewed at each other in front of the fireplace until they passed out.

…

_The anagram was "Naked Nerds Mew."_

_Yay, Nordic Club! I wonder if they do this sort of thing during club time?_


	142. Mathias and Matthew

**Mathias/Matthew.**

"Okay!" America stood in his sporting gear at the starting line for the relay race. "Everyone understands the rules? First team to cross –"

"Yes, yes, wanker, shut it!" England, scowling, stood at the starting line, baton in hand. Next to him, the starter for the Nordics, Finland; beyond him, Seychelles, and next to her China. The last one in the row was Canada.

All of them, except Canada, were clearly irritated with America. "Yes, quit blabbing-aru and get started!"

"Fine. On your marks – get set – go!" he yelled, pulling the trigger.

The runners were off. Finland pulled into the lead, laughing, and the others rushed to try to catch him.

America stood at the starting line, a little worried. Mattie had asthma, and he was worried that it would be difficult for his team (consisting of him, Denmark, Poland and Lithuania) to seriously compete in the race. But he had confidence in his twin.

…

Matthew ran and ran, stumbling a little as he tried to take deeper breaths and get enough air. The other runners, who had all outpaced him a little, were kicking up a lot of dust as they went, and it exacerbated his breathing difficulty. He held the hem of his shirt over his nose and mouth with one hand while he clasped the slim metal baton feverishly in the other hand, and put on a burst of speed, hoping to at least catch China or Seychelles, who were closest to him.

When he saw Poland waiting for the baton he pushed himself to the limit and passed Seychelles, practically flinging the baton into Poland's hand with a gasp. "Go," he wheezed, collapsing at the side of the route.

He watched as Poland passed three competitors. Good. Poland had good strong lungs, and he liked to run. He'd help make up for what Canada had lost. He eventually got up off the road and turned back to plod towards the starting/finish line.

…

By the time Lithuania, the third member of the team, got to Denmark, they had almost regained the lead. The only team ahead of them was England's, which also had the powerful Germany on the team, and the two Italies. Denmark had been a bit worried about that. Those two were known for their ridiculously fast speed at retreating. He'd hoped that running a race wouldn't bring out that skill that they normally kept under wraps.

He was distracted, as Prussia (the final leg runner for Austria's team) ran past, cackling and flourishing their baton. Damn that albino! But here came Lithuania. He handed off the baton efficiently and Denmark burst into action.

His lungs had been troubling him lately. He hadn't yet been to a doctor but the symptoms all sounded like asthma. What was it about asthma that he was supposed to remember? Oh, yeah – don't breathe in any dust! Well, damn, Prussia was kicking up an entire dust storm. Denmark ran faster and passed him, now only needing to catch up to Veneziano as he screamed towards the finish line. Funny how he screamed even though it was just a relay race.

The air began to get harder to breathe. Denmark held the hem of his shirt up as an impromptu face mask and put on some speed; he didn't want little Italy to win! He didn't like the idea of someone as puny as Veneziano beating him to the finish, but he also wanted to pound any team that had both England and Germany on it. He forced his legs into longer strides and began to gain on North Italy, though he was still having difficulty breathing.

Prussia passed him again, still laughing, and the irritated Dane growled with the little air he could get, pushing his body to the very limits of its athletic prowess. He _needed to win!_

Right. He passed Prussia and he'd be damned if he let the albino pass him again. He dropped the shirttail and focused on running; just a little way to go and he could cross the finish line, drop the baton, and lie down to get his breath. He was gaining on Veneziano! Yes! Denmark pounded the pavement harder and finally passed him. He wanted to cackle too, but he was too winded.

They approached the finish line; he knew Veneziano wasn't far behind, and probably both Prussia and Korea, who was the final runner on China's team, were closing in, too. With a last heroic burst of speed Denmark crossed the finish line first, stumbling and falling down after he'd passed it. The baton fell from his limp hand and rolled away on the paved street as he curled up in a little ball and fought for breath.

Above him he heard Canada's concerned voice. "Denmark, are you all right? You did a wonderful job and we won! Can you sit up? I have a drink of Gatorade for you?"

Denmark shook his head, still wheezing, and held his hand up, indicating "wait."

"Oh! You're having trouble breathing, too? Here." Canada held up an inhaler, shaking it. "When I put this to your mouth, take a deep breath." Denmark nodded and Canada sprayed it into his mouth.

Almost instantly the Dane felt his lungs settle down. "Oh. Gods. Thank you so much, Canada." He drew some more very deep breaths, this time calm and refreshing, and pulled himself into a sitting position.

Spain and Belarus were just crossing the finish line; everyone else stood around yelling at their teammates (England) or chatting in general (everyone else). Denmark nodded and held out his hand to Canada, who helped him stand up. "Good job," Canada repeated.

America cleared his throat and cupped his hands around his mouth like a megaphone. "Hey, everybody! First prize goes to the team of _my brother_, Canada, and his friends Poland, Lithuania and Denmark!"

Everyone congratulated them, and America gave them their prize coupons for free ice cream at Cold Stone Creamery. "I saw you, like, using an inhaler, Denmark. I totally didn't know you had asthma! We would have gotten somebody else to do the final leg of the race, you know." Poland flipped his hair around.

Lithuania frowned. "You have asthma? That's risky, running a race with something like that."

"I don't really know if it's asthma. I just have trouble breathing every now and then. But Canada's inhaler helped."

The younger blond blushed at all the attention as his teammates turned to face him. "I do have asthma," he offered shyly, "so I always carry the inhaler with me."

"Well, you're, like, both okay now, right?" When Denmark and Canada nodded, Poland grabbed them each by an arm. "Well, then? Let's go, like, get some ice cream!"

So they did.

…

_The anagram was "Team with Asthma."_


	143. Alfred and Vladimir

**Alfred/Vladimir.**

Von Bock hurried away to deal with his morning duties, leaving Alfred pacing his study again. He rang the little bell. When the butler arrived, the disappointed, hung-over landowner requested the presence of the head gardener.

"He's not here, sir. He went to town to arrange for a shipment of sod to replace the lawn that got destroyed last night."

"Damn. Is his son still here? Please find him and send him in."

The butler bowed and left the room.

Alfred had always found young Vladimir – who wasn't really all that young, maybe a year or two younger than he was – an entertaining person to be around. But of course, he was only the son of the head gardener. No one on a social level that Alfred could be with.

Moments later Vladimir sauntered in, smudged with dirt and beaming from ear to ear, a shovel held over his shoulder like a rifle. "Morning, sir," he offered cheekily.

"Good morning." Alfred grinned back at that saucy face. Even the fang didn't bother him today. "Do you really file that thing to a point?"

The younger man seemed taken aback. "Of course not. That would be vain and frivolous. This is the way I am."

"Fine."

"What did you want to see me about?"

"We need to get into a locked trunk in the attic. I'm not sure how to open it."

The Romanian looked very baffled. "Why me? I'm a gardener!"

"Why not you? Go get some drills or something. The trunk is wood; worst case, we'll drill open the lock."

"I'm serious, sir. I don't know anything about that!"

"Just do it," sighed Alfred; his head still hurt, and he wanted to get in and see what was in the mysterious trunk in the attics. Maybe there was something interesting that would take his mind off all this. Failing that, he'd take a vacation, maybe. Get away from all this.

"Yes, sir." Vladimir saluted with his shovel and left the room.

"Meet me here when you have the drills!" Alfred called out, receiving no response. He flopped down on an overstuffed cream-colored couch to wait.

…

"Got the drills, sir."

"Good. Follow me." Together the two of them headed towards the dim, dusty attics.

"Here's the trunk," Alfred eventually said, gesturing. "I've tried every key I own, and none of them will open that lock. I think the best thing to try is to drill it open."

"Whatever you say." Vladimir bent down and applied the point of the first auger to the hole in the lock and began to turn it. "Not doing much," he eventually grunted.

"Let me take a turn. I'm strong." Alfred grabbed the drill and pushed the younger man out of the way.

"Ow. Stop shoving!"

"Sorry." The landowner started cranking the drill and it snapped in half, in his hand. "Well, _damn!_"

"Don't worry." Vladimir laid a soft hand on his employer's shoulder, and Alfred shuddered a little. "I have another drill." He handed over the next drill in the pile; Alfred's hand brushed Vladimir's accidentally and he shuddered again.

"Ahem." He put the point of the drill into the lock hole and began twisting it again.

"Sir?"

But the auger wasn't working. "What! Damn it!"

Vladimir jumped back as Alfred flung the drill on the floor. "N-nothing, sorry, sorry…"

Alfred passed his hand over his forehead, trying to massage himself into a calmer frame of mind. "No. It's my fault. I'm very cranky and still hung over."

"And upset about Feliciano, I bet. Whoops." Vladimir covered his mouth with both hands and backed away.

Alfred sighed. "Just give me the goddamn drill."

Warily, the gardener tiptoed closer, picked up the next drill, and extended it towards his employer, who took it with another sigh. "Sorry, sir." The young man's voice was very soft.

"It's all right. I'll get over him, everyone will eventually forget, and things will go back to normal." He tried to drill the lock again and failed. "What the _fuck_ is so important in this damn trunk that the lock has to be so secure?" He punched the lid of the trunk and recoiled as he hurt his hand. "Ow." Alfred threw the third drill across the attic, where it bounced and fell out of the window.

Vladimir stepped closer to Alfred. "Sir, please calm down." He dared to rest a hand on his shoulder again, and Alfred, feeling that touch, did calm down a little. He was so frustrated; so embarrassed to be the pity figure of the district, and embarrassed to be up here in the isolated attic with his young and handsome gardener, who had always simultaneously entertained him and made him nervous. And he felt stupid about not being able to open the lock, of course.

He reached a hand up to clasp Vladimir's, where it still rested on his shoulder. "Thank you for helping me," he said quietly. "Maybe I should just leave town on an extended vacation." He let go and blew out a noisy breath, resting both hands on his dusty knees. "Hand me the next drill."

Vladimir reached for the fourth drill and gave it to him, crouching down beside him. "Do you want me to try again? I don't mind."

Alfred forced a smile. "Let me try this one – _calmly_ and _slowly_ – and if I can't drill the lock, you can try it with the last drill. Okay?"

"Yes, because there are no more drills left in the workshop! Five was all I could find."

The landowner picked up the fourth drill and applied it to the lock. As he began to turn it, he laughed. "This sure has turned out to be a lot of drama over this dumb trunk."

"I hope it's not empty," Vladimir suggested. "Or – or with something bad in it."

Alfred set down the drill; he wasn't getting anywhere, anyway. "What do you mean, bad?" He moved away from the trunk and gestured to both Vladimir and the fifth drill.

"Dead body? Papers proving you don't really own this land? I don't know."

Damn it, now Alfred was angry again, but he held his temper in check while he watched the younger man drill the lock. Finally the damn thing burst open with a clatter; Vlad set the fifth drill on the floor and removed the lock from the latches. "Well, let's open it," Alfred decided, placing his hands on the trunk's lid.

"Good luck," Vlad whispered, peeking over his shoulder.

Alfred flung open the trunk lid, and together they peered inside to find a wild assortment of whips, chains, leather gear, bottles of lubricant, and other sex toys. "Whoops!" Alfred yelled, slamming the lid. _Now_ he remembered why he'd locked that trunk so securely!

…

_The anagram was "Five Drill Drama." Stay tuned for more of these two._

_I'm thinking of starting a new story along these lines, once I finish "Exit Strategy" – similar short chapters focusing on a pairing of two nations, but not necessarily anagrams. _


	144. Turkey and Seychelles

_For Ellenthefox, who chose two nations I don't normally write about, just to be contrary. Sorry this is about two months late. I forgot about them._

…

**Turkey/Seychelles.**

"Hey, Sey! Get over here." Turkey walked into her backyard with a crate of something.

"What? No, I'm busy. I'm busy building a pen. Come see." She stood knee-deep in the water, holding something.

Turkey came over to look at her work. "A pen? For writing?"

"Oh. No. No, a pen for aquatic life. Like a fish tank, but it's in the water, see? You put up bamboo stalks on three sides and the fish, or whatever, can swim in and find a safe place to rest, where they won't get caught."

He raised an eyebrow, and it made his mask shift a little. "Why?"

"Why not? Anyway, I keep hearing about these oil spills, and you know the animals and fish get all yucky from it, so if I can contain them in the pen, the rescue workers can come and take care of them more easily. Here. Put some bamboo stalks in. Help make the fence." She waded out a little further into the water, her skirts kilted up around her knees.

"I can't do that!" Turkey brandished the bamboo stalks angrily. "My cloak will get wet!"

"Don't be so fussy. Take the stupid cloak off, and get in here."

He scowled, but did as she said, bumbling around in the warm water with the bamboo stalks in his hand.

When Seychelles checked on him she burst into laughter. "You look ridiculous! Turban, mask, and tighty whities? Ha ha ha!"

"You're the one who told me to take the cloak off, missy," he growled, stabbing a bamboo stalk into the surface underfoot.

"Well, that's true," she laughed again, and then stopped. "Wait. You mean the only thing you wear under your cloak is underwear?"

"Of course I wear underwear! I'm not some sleaze like Greece who goes commando all the time!"

"Uh. I don't know what to say. Greece goes commando? How do you know? I thought you two were enemies?" She shook her head and focused on her work. "No. No. Forget that. What I meant to say is, why aren't you wearing any regular clothes under the cloak? On top of the underwear?"

"Why should I?" Turkey growled. "It's hot under that thing!"

Seychelles stopped what she was doing and glared at him. "Then why not wear clothes without the cloak? Honestly, sometimes you amaze me."

"You just don't understand me."

"That's true," she admitted. "I guess we really live too far apart."

"Don't say that. Just tell me where to get some more of these bamboo poles."

She pointed towards a small shed on the beach. "In there. Aah!" she then yelled, leaping out of the water and running to the shed.

"What? What?" A bemused Turkey stood in the water, watching this.

"Eels! Skanky, yucky eels," she shuddered, backing up so she was right up against the wall of the shed.

"So what? Eels are just like fish, right?" He peered down into the water. "I don't see any eels, anyway."

"N-n-normally I don't have a p-p-problem with eels, but these were really gross!" Seychelles stood panting and shaking her head in disgust. "Gross!"

Turkey reached down and picked up an eel. "You mean this?"

"Aah!"

But he ran out of the water towards her, brandishing the panicked eel like a scimitar, howling and laughing at her, and she ran off. Turkey chased her all over the place, flapping the eel in the air and laughing, and Seychelles kept trying to get away.

"Stop, Turkey, stop!" She collapsed against the side of the shed again, and Turkey took pity on her, flinging the eel back into the water.

"Sorry, babe. Anyway, what? What was so gross about it?"

"Ugh, I don't even know. Help me up." She held out a hand and he pulled her up. "And please go put your cloak back on."

"Now what? You don't like my underwear?" He peered down at it. "Looks fine to me."

"I'm just not in the mood to deal with a half-naked nation in a mask. Do it."

"Maybe she doesn't like my physique," he grumbled, posing like a bodybuilder as he went back to where the cloak lay on the grass.

Moments later he was once again discreetly dressed, and Seychelles had regained her composure. "Help me fix the shelter," she said wearily.

"You're going to drive me nuts, you know that, woman? Now I have to take the cloak off again."

"I don't even care! Get naked if you want," she muttered. "Just help me finish this fish pen so we can get out of here. I do _not_ want to run into any more yucky eels."

Turkey raised an eyebrow and decided to call her bluff. He stripped all the way – except for the mask of course – and waded into the water, grabbing a few bamboo poles as he passed.

But to no avail. Seychelles was so worried about the eels that she didn't glance at his supreme nakedness. Not once. "Hey!" he bellowed.

"Yes?" She did look, but by then he was up to his chest in the water. "What are you yelling about?"

"Oh, for crying out loud." Turkey splashed her. "You're the most unobservant – _aah!_" he yelled once more, slipping and falling into the water. His mask fell off and washed away as he scrambled to his feet.

"What is the matter?" She waved a bamboo pole threateningly.

"An – an eel got me!"

But instead of getting scared, Seychelles dealt with it calmly. "Are you all right? What do you mean, it 'got you'? Bit you?"

"It – it brushed past my leg. Urgh. And now my mask is gone, and I'm – " He stopped speaking as he remembered he was now one hundred percent naked. "Just bring me my cloak, please."

Seychelles narrowed her eyes and went to the bank. He watched her stop short as she picked up the cloak, because she'd seen the underwear lying on shore as well. "Uh…Turkey?"

"Yes, what?" he demanded, trying to cover his embarrassment.

"You're naked in the water?" Her voice was shy and squeaky.

"Yes?"

"O-okay." She picked up the cloak, but not the underwear, and waded out into the water – but not too close to him. "Here." She held out the cloak; Turkey reached for it, and an eel jumped up and grabbed the cloak in its mouth, pulling it out to sea.

"Yikes!" Both of them scrambled away from the mad eels, standing inside the shelter of bamboo poles for safety. Seychelles was trembling; Turkey, always a gentleman, reached out to put an arm around her and comfort her.

"No," she stammered. "L-let me go into the house, and then you can get out and put your underwear on."

Oh, right. He'd forgotten he was naked. "Okay."

"Just don't let the gross eels grab that, too," she called out merrily, as she escaped from the disturbing scene. "Otherwise you'll have to go home in one of my dresses!"

Turkey sighed. Next time she wanted help building her eel pens, she could damn well call Japan or someone. He never wanted to see another eel as long as he lived.

…

_The anagram was "Shelter Yucky Eels."_


	145. Alfred and Vladimir II

_This takes place right after the Rice Aroma chapter, not in the Tiaraville universe._

…

**Alfred/Vladimir.**

"So what's the movie we're seeing tonight?" Romania asked as he bopped along with America in his arms. "I hope it's something good, from your cinemas."

"Uh, I don't even know." America was still riding his high; he didn't give a damn what film they'd see! "Let's just see what's still available. M-maybe it will be a love story," he stammered, blushing. But he couldn't take his glasses off and polish them, not without falling out of Romania's arms…which he definitely didn't want to risk. So he closed his eyes.

Romania stopped walking and set him down, and the shocked hero opened his eyes. "America, you are totally adorable."

The hero continued to blush but this time he did take his glasses off. "I – I'm glad you think so, dude," he hazarded, trying to keep it light. But then he blurted out, "I think you're pretty adorable too!" Damn.

"Ha ha ha!" Romania was in good spirits, anyway. Must have been all the high-quality Chinese food. "Tell me something."

America put his glasses back on and frowned delicately back at his date. "Yes?"

The fanged nation took his hands and laced their fingers together. "America," he said quietly, sincerely, "do you like to goof around on dates? Or," and he lowered his voice a little more, "do you prefer to be romantic?" His reddish eyes linked with America's blue ones, which were nervously blinking behind the glasses.

No, he wasn't going to panic. He could deal with this! "Ahem. It depends on the person, I guess. I – I mean, when Iggy and I were dating, we were never _romantic_ with each other. Japan, well, he was kind of stoic, so it was hard to tell. And, and R-Russia, well, he used to be romantic but I could never tell if he was jerking my chain, you know?" Whoops. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to itemize all his past boyfriends! He hurriedly changed the topic somewhat. "S-so I'd like to try being romantic with you, Romania. B-but I might not be very good at it, and in that case I'd be happy to goof around with you." He smiled weakly and shrugged. "Whatever you like. I'm really excited to be on this date with you."

But Romania was still holding his hands, which was good. Which was _great!_ Seriously, no matter how Romania wanted to be, America would work hard at it. "That's good, that you're flexible," his date said with a soft smile. "I've always been the romantic, seductive type. But when you asked me out I thought it might be nice to be goofy with a date, for a change."

"Well, that's awesome! That means we can sort of take turns, right? One night we can be romantic, which is your specialty, and one night we can be goofy, which is mine!" He beamed, feeling goofy and proud of it, now.

"You really are adorable. That sounds like a good plan to me." They started walking again, still holding hands. "Which would you like to do tonight? Romantic or goofy?"

"Let's do romantic," America decided. "If that's all right with you."

"Sure, that's fine. Anyway, we had a little bit of fun at the restaurant." Romania lowered his voice once more and lifted their joined hands to his lips, where he kissed the hero's knuckles. "So we're going to look for a love story movie?"

America forced his mind into unfamiliar romantic mode and purred, "I'm looking forward to sitting close to you in the dark."

"Mm. Maybe we can find a movie that's a little more – ah – intimate?"

"You mean a dirty movie?" America blurted out. Oops.

Romania actually giggled. "I did _not_ mean a dirty movie! Oh, America, are you really so naïve?"

The hero sighed. "I'm afraid I probably am. Given the attitude of my people, you know. So many of them are so provincial about intimacy." He brightened. "I'd be happy to follow your lead, though. So what kind of movie did you mean?"

"Just a, oh, I don't know how to describe it. I love movies, though, so if I look at what's showing, I'll probably know which ones are good."

"Okay! The theatre's just around the corner. I hope there's not a long line. This is a really popular place, and it worries me that we took too long over the dinner. Maybe all the shows will be sold out." But America felt good, even if he was being stupid, because Romania seemed to be having fun. And really, what it all boiled down to, was whether he could have fun on his dates. America knew any real chance of success would lie with a partner who could be lighthearted and fun.

When they rounded the corner both of them stopped. There was no line at all. "Maybe the theatre's out of business?" Romania wondered, letting go of his date's hand and walking up to the ticket window.

"Excuse me," America asked the clerk, who looked terrifically bored. "Is there a problem with the theatre? Have we missed all the showings?"

Her eyes widened in amazement. "You actually want to see this movie?"

"Well, what's the movie? We were hoping for a rom-com," America said point-blank, hoping Romania wouldn't take offense at that.

"Hah," the girl snorted. "Tonight's feature is a special documentary on dried larva."

"Dried _larva_?" The two nations glanced at each other with raised eyebrows. "Uh…I think we'd better skip the movie," America finally managed to say.

"No kidding! It'd be tough to be romantic and seductive!"

They started laughing together and left the area, waving back to the ticket clerk. "Sorry, dude. I should have checked the listings first."

"Don't worry at all, America." Romania cupped the hero's face in his hands and stared into his eyes. "I'm still having fun. Don't be so worrisome."

"O-okay! I can totally relax. Come on, I'll take you to the county fair instead."

Romania stopped again and hugged him tightly, picking him up and spinning him around a little. "Whatever you like, America. Let's go!"

…

_The anagram was "Dried Larva Film."_


	146. Estonia and Bulgaria

**Estonia/Bulgaria.**

"Come on," Bulgaria whispered drunkenly, pulling his friend along and giggling. "My plan is amazing, awesome, fantastic, hilarious!"

"Please, Bulgaria? Please! You know how much I hate being in Russia's territory!" Estonia was also drunk, but he had enough of his mental faculties intact to know this was a bad idea. He jerked back against the pull of Bulgaria's gloved hand.

Both tipsy nations stopped outside the Winter Palace, craning their necks to look up – and up – at the imposing building as its windows and exterior lights twinkled in the moonlight. Each of them was clad in a thick, furry coat with a big luxurious hood, which not only kept them warm but also camouflaged them somewhat. Bulgaria had his standard black leather gloves on, but Estonia wore warm brown cashmere-lined mittens that extended up into his coat sleeves. It was brutally cold here in St. Petersburg, and he loathed the place. Always had.

So why were they here? Estonia sighed. Bulgaria, who was growing more confident in himself every day, had taken great pains to get Estonia drunk (which was not difficult) and then led them to the riverfront of the fabled city, stumbling and laughing. He wanted to play a prank on their old nemesis.

"I – I don't think we should do this!" Estonia whined. Yes, he sounded like a baby, but he was so afraid of Russia. He knew that Bulgaria was only doing it because he was thoroughly trashed. If he had an ounce of sense in his brain right now, they'd be in the Caribbean, or Australia, some other warm and sunny place that was about as far away from Russia as they could get. "Don't!"

Bulgaria tipped his head back and laughed and laughed. "Esti, _mila moja_, calm yourself down. We're only going to do a little sabotage, and then we can go home and snuggle up together in bed, okay?" He gave Estonia that wide, brilliant smile that Estonia loved, that he rarely got to see, and of course the Baltic nation totally caved in. If it would make his _armastaja_ happy, he'd do it.

"Fine. Lead on." He still felt a bit grumpy, though. Bulgaria took him by the hand again and they wandered off around the back, a little more sedately. "How are we going to get in there?" Estonia hissed.

Bulgaria held a gloved finger to his lips. "Shh. I know a secret way in. It is the way the cleaning staff uses."

"Are you totally sure about this? I do _not_ want to get caught!"

"Shh, yes, yes." Bulgaria pressed a kiss to his lover's lips, and Estonia nearly forgot all about this stupid Russian prank. He loved kissing Bulgaria, loved how open his Balkan boyfriend had become in just a few short months. "Calm down. I am totally sure, and we will just sneak in, do it, and go."

"Well, let's get it over with." One last kiss and they broke apart, now both laughing, to get the prank done.

Bulgaria fiddled with the lock and the door swung open. At this time of night they'd expected only cleaners and security guards, but at first saw no one. On tiptoe, they made their way as far as the main galleries, which were in fact swarming with workers. "Shh," Bulgaria said needlessly; the only noise Estonia was prepared to make was the chattering of his nervous teeth.

"What are we going to do?" he mouthed.

Boldly, the Balkan stepped forward and surveyed the gallery they were in. "Look!" he hissed, sticking his face right inside Estonia's hood. "It's Duchamp's _Fountain!_"

"Whose what?"

"Duchamp, famous artist, turned a urinal on its side and called it _Fountain._ Come on. I have a perfect plan."

"What perfect plan?" Estonia yanked him back. "Tell me the plan before we go. I don't want to be bumbling around."

"We'll just turn it back to normal. So it looks like a real urinal. I wonder how many people would even notice?" Bulgaria scanned the workers. "I don't mean the workers, of course. Wondering how many visitors would spot a mistake like that?"

"Hee hee," Estonia giggled, now getting into the spirit of things. "They'd think Russia was too clueless to display it properly!" He covered his mouth with his hand. "Okay. What about alarms?"

"I don't think we need to worry. Keep your mittens on. No fingerprints?"

Estonia nodded. "Got it. So we'll just walk over, turn it sideways, and leave?"

"Let's hide over there" – Bulgaria pointed to a large pillar – "and see if anyone notices it right away. Then in ten minutes, if nothing happens, we can sneak out. All right? Stay calm, stay nonchalant. We can do this."

The two of them bumped fists as well as they could in the winter gear and strolled over to the sculpture as though they were idle visitors killing time. They each took up a position flanking the sculpture. Bulgaria mimicked picking it up and setting it down the other way, so Estonia now knew which way to lift without causing a commotion.

Bulgaria's gloved hand flashed _1, 2, 3_; they grabbed the sculpture and quickly reoriented it into the proper position for a urinal. "Hide," the brunet whispered, so they scurried to their chosen hiding space.

No one seemed to notice. The employees kept cleaning, and strolling on their security rounds, and for eight minutes the two nations hugged each other and giggled periodically.

"Okay. Let's go now. These Russians won't notice a thing," Bulgaria whispered. They stepped out into the room and then Estonia yanked Bulgaria back into hiding. "What? What?" the Balkan asked with a drunken snarl.

Estonia pointed wordlessly to the center of the room, where Russia now walked, greeting cleaners and guards by name, making pleasant chit-chat with each of them. Frozen, the saboteurs stood behind the pillar with their hoods up, praying he wouldn't see them. But he was on a trajectory directly towards their hiding place.

They both squeezed their eyes shut, desperately trying not to be noticed, and Russia's voice boomed in their ears. "How pleasant, da? Look at this lovely urinal!"

Bulgaria and Estonia stared at each other in shock, at the sound of a stream of liquid striking porcelain.

…

_The anagram was "I Sabotage Urinal."_

_"Mila moja" is "my dear," and "armastaja" is "lover" (thanks to MS Translator)._

_Duchamp's original "Fountain" was lost quite soon after its submission to an art exposition, although replicas were commissioned by him many years later. You can read about it on Wikipedia._


	147. South Italy and Britain II

_They're just friends, in this one. At least to begin with…_

…

**South Italy/Britain.**

England and Romano prepared to go to the beach. "Bastard, I had no idea your chest was so hairy," Romano pointed out as they changed.

"Because we've never roomed together before, git. When would you ever have seen me without a shirt?"

Romano grinned, looking at the island nation. "Maybe we should room together more often. You're fucking hot."

England tried an America-style bodybuilder pose. "That's me. Hot and hairy."

"Pfft. Don't be stupid." Romano finished pulling on his trunks. "Shift your ass."

"Yes, all right." England struggled into a too-small white t-shirt and grabbed a towel. "Let's go."

Together they made their way to the little Greek beach near the hotel. This world meeting had been (as expected) really boring, but Romano loved the beach, and he was happy he had the amenable England for a roommate and not some fucker like Switzerland. England was always good for a laugh.

He looked over at him again. "Dammit."

"Dammit what? Distracted by my hot bod again?" The blond tried to pose, but with a towel in one arm and a water bottle in the other, it didn't look so impressive.

"Well, no. Your – your shirt is really tight."

England glanced down. "I suppose it is, a little. So what? We're just going to the beach. I'm not trying to win any fashion awards."

"It – ah, oh, never mind." Romano could feel himself turning red and looked away.

"What? Seriously, is it highlighting my paunch or something? I know I've been gaining a little weight. Been going out drinking with Denmark and Prussia too often. I need to start working out." They reached the little strip of sand and England did a few arm curls with the water bottle. "I guess I can switch to black shirts; that might help, too."

"That's not it, stupid. You look fine without a shirt, but with that tight shirt on, it makes you look like you have tits."

_"What?_"

"Pfft. You heard me. Look at yourself." Romano still couldn't meet his eyes, so he flapped his hand vaguely in the direction of his friend's chest.

"Tits? Hmm."

That sounded kind of suspicious, so Romano peeked over, only to see the island nation squeezing his tits. "Dammit!" He smacked him in the arm. "Stop that. You look like some kind of idiot."

Green eyes wide, England pouted. "So, you think I'm too hairy, and I have man-boobs. Bollocks. I must be the ugliest nation on earth, between that and the ruddy eyebrows." He shook out the towel and sat down, snorting. "Hairy man-boobs. You hate me, don't you?" he asked sadly, sitting down, staring out to sea.

Romano hastened to reassure him as he sat next to him. "I don't hate you, bastard. Who cares what you look like? You're my friend and that's all that counts."

England glared back. "That's just the kind of stupid thing people say when they mean 'you do look ugly but I'm trying to be nice and not say it'!"

"Shut the fuck up."

"I'm going in the water." England took off the shirt – and Romano was glad of that, because it really did make him look like a victim of gynecomastia! Romano buffed his nails on his bare chest skin for thinking of the technical word, and then snorted at himself. He watched his friend walk to the water's surface and test it, and then plunge right in.

What should he say or do? He bit his lip. He really didn't want England to be mad at him. But it was true, the hairy chest was fucking distracting, with or without tits. None of Romano's dates had ever had more than just a light dusting of chest hair. He wondered what it would feel like to comb his fingers through that.

_Argh!_ No, no, that's not what he wanted to think about. Dammit. No, he had to figure out how to be patient and calm with his friend so that the blond wouldn't get all pissed off at him for that commentary.

Maybe he should just shut the fuck up about it. England was perfectly fine to look at when he was fully dressed; nobody else was here on the little beachlet; and so it didn't really matter! The only one who would see him like this was Romano. At least it sounded as though his friend was aware of the weight issue and planned to do something about it. Maybe he would suggest they start jogging together. He could use the running practice, and then England would shape up a little! And _then_ Romano could make love to him…

Fuck, he was doing it again. Well, it was stupid to come to the beach and not go in the water, so he got up and walked to the edge, testing it with a foot. England was about thirty meters out, splashing around and acting like a festive seal. The water was warm, so Romano went right in and started walking towards his friend, intending to ignore the whole body discussion until later. "Hey," he called out, when he got closer.

"Hey." England turned to face him. "Sorry. I know you meant well."

"Y-yeah." Romano rubbed a wet hand over his face. Shit, this was awkward. To get his mind off it, he started splashing his friend.

"Oi! You little wanker!" England splashed back, and for the next half hour or so, the two of them frolicked around in the water together, laughing and splashing.

Since it was late in the day, soon the air began to get cooler. "We should get out of the water, bastard."

"Yeah, but I want to hang around the beach for a while. I haven't had much chance to do it at home."

"Fine by me." They went back to their towels and lay down, England face down, and Romano on his back with an arm thrown over his eyes. He could feel his hair was full of salt, and he'd need to shower when they got back to the room. Maybe he could convince England to shower with –

Dammit.

An hour later it was finally chilly enough to leave the beach. England struggled into his t-shirt again; they gathered up their things, and headed back to the hotel.

"Bollocks," the blond blurted, when they'd gotten back and he'd taken the shirt off. "Now I'm covered in sand." He brushed a hand back and forth over his chest, and a sprinkling of sand dislodged itself and landed on the carpet.

"Take – ahem – uh – take a shower, stupid. Wash it off." Romano felt his face burning, but couldn't look away from that mesmerizing sight.

"Good idea." The blond ducked into the bathroom and soon Romano heard the water running. Did he dare peek in there?

"Dammit," he told himself, "either make a move or don't."

Of course he made the move. He stripped, strutted into the bathroom, where England stood amazed inside the glass shower stall, and yanked the stall door open. "Let me in here. S-saves water, and then I can help you wash the sand off your tits." Shit, shit, _shit!_ He closed his eyes, partially to keep the shower spray out of them, but also because he felt like a fucking idiot. What an ass he was.

His eyes flew open as he felt England gently folding his fingers around a bar of soap. "Wash me," the blond said hoarsely, his voice just barely louder than the sound of the shower against the tiled walls. "And then I'll – I'll wash you."

Romano smiled agreement, turning the soap over and over to make a lather as he prepared to clean his understanding friend.

…

_The anagram was "Hairy Tit Ablutions." I almost found this too bizarre to write, but Ellenthefox and HimochiIsAwesome encouraged me to do so. Thanks, guys._


	148. America and Poland and Lithuania

**America/Poland/Lithuania.**

Alfred paced in his gardens. What an idiot he'd made of himself lately! First the Feliciano debacle, then the idiocy with the locked trunk full of his old sex kink paraphernalia – it was bad enough he'd opened that floodgate of memories, but that Vladimir had seen it too? _And_ seen him acting like a moron, unable to open the trunk without help? Argh, Alfred was an idiot, and this year had seemed to prove that again and again. And it was only halfway over.

He barely looked at the beautiful flowers in his garden, that Vladimir and his colleagues tended so well. Roses there – argh, yes, roses he'd cut for Feliciano – lilies there, lilies that his friend Francis had given him to plant. The camellia hedges grew thick and strong off to the side, but the miserable landowner could not enjoy the sight. He do nothing but pace and fume.

At one point the sunlight struck the copper cupola atop his castle and flashed, catching Alfred's attention. He scowled at it. Maybe he should sell everything – the castle, the grounds, dismiss the slacker servants – and move back across the ocean. Make a fresh start where nobody knew him.

Before he could take this line of thinking any further, he heard a scurrying of feet, laughter, a squeal. Damn! Were his servants skiving off _again_? He'd fire the lot of them on Friday. Tomorrow was a holiday, and even the angry blond wouldn't fire people on the eve of a national holiday. He tiptoed to the end of the row of flowers and peeked out to see who was goofing off.

Hah. Not his servants. His neighbors Feliks and Toris were visible: Toris running around and Feliks chasing him. It was Feliks who had giggled and squealed, of course. "Hey!" Alfred bellowed, wondering what they were doing in his gardens.

"Oh!" Feliks turned to look at the source of the voice and tripped over a carelessly-abandoned garden hoe. "Ow, oh, Alfred, like, why'd you have to yell? I totally hurt my nose!"

Toris scooted over to his side. Alfred followed more lazily. Both of them eyed Feliks' nose askance. "Looks okay to me," the landowner grunted.

It was evident that no more sympathy would be forthcoming, so Feliks shrugged and stood up. "Why did you, like, yell at me?"

"Just wondering why you're running around my gardens." Though Toris' property did abut Alfred's to the south. Maybe they'd just lost track of the boundaries during their frolicking.

"Oh," Toris spoke up. "We wanted to show you something. I forgot." He took Feliks' hand. "In my gardens. Do you have time to come over?"

"Yes, yes. I had nothing better to do." Alfred pushed his glasses up his nose and scowled.

"Tee hee! You're totes hilarious, Alfred," Feliks nodded, poking him. "You can try to be all surly, you know, but we know you're a buoyant kind of man. You'll, like, get over everything and bounce back."

"Shh!" his friend warned. "Don't make it worse."

But Alfred shrugged. "It's all right. I'm just indulging in a little self-pity. Feliks is right. I'll get over it soon." He gestured towards the boundary line. "What do you have to show me?"

"Step this way." The brunet yanked Feliks along by the hand, but Alfred, with his longer legs, easily kept up. Well, it was something to do, anyway, no matter what it was. Better than pacing around feeling like a jerk.

The three men crossed the boundary line and turned to the west, where Toris had his small gardens. Most of his plantings focused on vegetables and fruits to help feed his household, although there were some nice naturalized flowers here and there. Alfred especially liked the landscaped area on the banks of the river that ran through both their properties. He'd allowed Mother Nature to have her own way at his place, but the Lithuanian had carefully crafted a riverside oasis.

_"Whoa!_" Alfred yelled, as they came in sight of the river. "What the hell?" He stood in disbelief, staring at the masses and masses of bright yellow flowers on both banks. "Seriously, dude! What did you plant?"

"I know, right? It's crazy!" Feliks twinkled at him. "These are all from Toris' new dahlias."

Alfred moved closer, his jaw still agape. "These are all _dahlias_?" He turned to Toris accusingly. "I've been wanting to plant dahlias for a long time, but the nurseries are always out of stock. Have you been cornering the market? I'd bet there are six acres of flowers here!"

The brunet shook his head. "No. No! These are all naturalized from a few that I managed to get last year. Elizaveta sold them to me, and I planted them by that willow tree." He pointed to the tree in question. "Now all of a sudden, this explosion of flowers. I'm stunned. I'm also a little bit disappointed. There are too many, and it ruins the look of my landscaping, and they might even be crowding out some of the existing plants."

Alfred nodded sagely, striding up and down next to the giant clumps of dahlias, reaching a hand to stroke the delicate beauties. What a surprising occurrence! There must be a few thousand here. They'd look perfect next to _his _section of the river. What a marvelous landscape he could accomplish with these!

He knew he could easily take advantage of the situation. "You're right, it does ruin the look. All that effort you put into the landscaping! Well," said the man whose business acumen had made him the most powerful landowner in the province, "I'm happy to take them off your hands. I can send Vladimir and some of the other young gardeners over tomorrow with wheelbarrows to dig them up and transplant them at my place." Yes, he'd take them all, if Toris let him.

But Feliks laughed, showing that he was just as business-savvy as Alfred. "You can totally have them at the going rate, Alfred! Dahlias retail for, like, three florins a tuber!"

…

_The anagram was "Maniacal Dahlia Eruption." I chose this trio because tomorrow is Independence Day for America but also the day the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth was formed in 1569. Too bad the dahlia is not one of their national flowers._


	149. Ludwig and Feliciano

**Ludwig/Feliciano.**

"Ve, I can't get this wig right," the younger man said, adjusting an elaborate, coiled, powdered coif. "It keeps slipping over my ear."

Ludwig adjusted his pink dress and peered down at his friend. Feliciano's deep green dress suited him beautifully. In fact, if Feli could get his wig settled, he'd make an extremely striking court woman.

The blond reached out to help him adjust the wig. "It is a bit difficult," he realized, trying to find the right balance. "You may not be able to dance tonight. It seems like any sharp movement is going to disturb the wig and make it fall." He tweaked it into place. "Plus some of these curls look weak. Where did you get this?"

"Feliks had a bunch of them in his little shop. I thought it would be the perfect accessory for the party tonight, ve." His voice was sad.

"More likely Feliks is trying to sabotage everyone's costume so that he wins."

"Could be, ve. But you need to get your own wig on, too! Ve, we want to win the competition, don't we?"

Alfred was hosting another party tonight. Ludwig suspected he was throwing the party to show everyone how unconcerned he was about everything that had happened to him recently. He knew it could not be a serious party, because the host had specified that all guests were to cross-dress. And that was why Feliciano struggled with a wig, and why Ludwig wore this ghastly pink confection that made him look like a debutante on steroids. He snorted. "Hand me my wig, then."

The host had offered a large cash prize for the best attire. Ludwig wanted to win! Partially this was due to his competitive nature. He'd done an excellent job on his outfit, but he also wanted to take the capricious Alfred to the cleaners. He still got irritated about being demoted to rice manager, once in a while.

Plus, if he won, he could afford to take Feliciano on a great vacation. Maybe even a honeymoon.

Feliciano reached over and gently lifted the mass of soft, curling blond hair, reaching it up to his friend. Ludwig had opted to wear a blond wig rather than a classic powdered style, just to be different. Gilbert had bought this wig a long time ago as a gift to Elizaveta; she'd thrown it in his face, breaking up with him on the spot. Apparently the message she'd gotten was that blonds were more beautiful than she was. Gilbert was so tactless sometimes.

He smiled at his own reflection before slipping the towering wig onto his head. Blonds _were_ more beautiful!

"Ve…" Feliciano sighed. "Do you think your wig will stay on?"

He adjusted it properly. "I don't think it will fall off my head," he considered. "But the ringlets are looking a bit limp. I don't make a very attractive woman."

"You look fine. I suppose that's what happens when you have a wig left in a closet for years, ve." Feliciano reached up to tweak a few of the less-cooperative curls into place. "How is my wig looking?" He turned his head very slowly to the left and the right.

"Fine, at the moment. Are you ready? Let's go, and just be careful not to make any sudden movements."

…

Ludwig was quite interested to see the costumes of the others. Roderich was, as expected, stunning, in a white gown loaded with gold braid. His partner Vash looked good, but uncomfortable; it would be difficult to win with that surly expression on his face. The German wondered whether Vash had a gun under his skirt!

Gilbert and Mathias wore modern dresses instead of the more courtly gowns. His brother's was a clingy red sheath – to match his eyes, Ludwig guessed, and snorted – and Mathias wore a 1950s-style poodle skirt, white blouse, and saddle shoes. Clearly he wasn't taking this seriously; he looked like a pantomime dame with all that overdone makeup! Gilbert had teased his hair into a rough approximation of a woman's style, but Mathias had a wig on; there was no way he could manipulate his own spiky hair into a more feminine style.

"Ve, I wonder if Arthur will be wearing that old dress?" Feliciano wondered. "Lovi didn't tell me at all about what they were wearing. I don't even know if they're coming to the party," he realized, staring around the ornate room.

The castle's ballroom was the perfect setting. The chandeliers glittered, the musicians played their wonderful music: even though Ludwig felt somewhat of an idiot in this dress, he was happy to be here. He adjusted his wig and glanced down at his friend as they searched for Alfred.

Feliciano's wig was still straight, but his curls were beginning to uncoil as well. At this rate they'd both be limp and bedraggled by the end of the evening! Well, if everyone drank as much as they usually did, perhaps no one would remember. Or perhaps people would begin to shed their girly accessories as the night went on.

"Ve, look at Lili! She looks so manly!" Feliciano squeezed Ludwig's arm and pointed to the young girl in a heavily embroidered green frock coat, matching breeches, and high-heeled boots. "Like one of the old kings!"

"Indeed. Most of the costumes tonight are exquisite." Ludwig was a little worried. "I thought either you or I would easily win, but now I am not so certain." He fiddled with the limp coils of hair on his friend's wig. "Hold still while I try to fix these."

But Feliciano gazed up at him happily. "Ve, Ludwig, I don't even care. Let's just find Alfred, say hello, and enjoy the party."

The German smiled. "That's fine with me." Together they moved off to find their host.

Alfred seemed in a pleasant mood, although he himself was wearing a modern tuxedo. He greeted them both politely. "You look great tonight, Feliciano," he smiled. "Really beautiful. Not like your brother."

"Ve, what's wrong with Lovi?"

The host scowled. "He and Arthur refused to wear dresses, so I made them go home."

"Oh. I wanted to talk to him. Ve, Ludwig, maybe we can go to Lovi's house when we're done here?"

"I don't mind." Frankly, at this point Ludwig just wanted to get this hot wig off his head! But he wanted to win the prize, so he suffered in silence.

They chatted some more, idly, before Alfred saw someone else he needed to speak to. Feliciano sighed as they watched him leave. "Ve, it's kind of unfair that he didn't have to get dressed up."

"Pfft. If he did, he'd probably award _himself_ the cash prize." Ludwig was still focused on that, although Feliciano seemed to be more intrigued by the other costumes. "Let's get something to drink. It's hot in here."

"I know it." Feli fanned himself with his hand. "And your wig is drooping."

"Oh, no!" Ludwig put up a hand to steady it. "Is it going to fall off?"

"No, no, ve. I just meant the curls are failing. They're beginning to look a bit limp."

"I don't think wigs are worth it. I'm going to put this into its box at home and never wear it again." He scowled.

Feliciano giggled. "I hope we won't have too many more occasions to cross-dress!"

They smiled at each other, and then heard Alfred yelling for everyone's attention. "It's time to award the prize, people!"

Everyone swarmed hopefully towards the host. "I bet it will be Roderich," they heard Lili whisper to Elizaveta, who looked quite manly as well.

"After speaking with all of my guests, and carefully observing everyone, here is my decision." Alfred cleared his throat ostentatiously. "The prize goes to…" Everyone swayed forward to hear. Ludwig desperately hoped it would be him, but he could see that many others looked better than he did. He didn't stand a chance.

"…Feliciano!" Alfred beamed at his ex-fiancé, who squealed and clapped his hands before running up to the host. Everyone turned to look at him, and a smattering of clapping began.

But as the Italian reached for his envelope full of cash, the wig, now almost totally limp, slid right off his head and landed on Alfred's feet. "Ve!" Feli cried out, scooping it up and slapping it haphazardly back in place. He reached out again, but Alfred stared at the wig and wouldn't give the envelope to him.

"Sorry, man. That wig is so bad I have to revise the prizes. Gilbert gets first prize!"

"Kesesese!"

…

_The anagram was "Uncoiled Wig Fail."_

_I'm definitely stopping with this one. Anagrams are getting really hard to come up with. I think what I'll do is start a similar follow-up story that's not based on anagrams, just odd one- and two-shots, and maybe continue little vignettes from this universe from time to time._


	150. England and Bulgaria

_Argh, well, I know this is supposed to be complete, but I couldn't help it. Today I made scones with Bulgarian buttermilk, and got a great anagram right off the bat._

…

**England/Bulgaria.**

"Here, now, hold this," the island nation demanded, reaching his secateurs back to his visiting new friend Bulgaria.

The brunet took them and examined them while England pulled cut rose canes from his garden and threw them into a pile at the side of the yard. "These are nice," he realized, his gloved hands stroking the dark wooden handles.

"Been in the family for ages," England grunted, hefting an armload of yard debris into the pile. "These bloody roses are going to drive me mental. Cut some, will you? Just cut them all down to about eighteen inches high. I'll take them over and put them in the pile when you're done."

"All right." Bulgaria once again realized the benefit of wearing gloves all the time, because he didn't have to bother with gardening gloves! He hadn't known what to expect when England had invited him over, but Estonia had plans, and presumably Romano did too, so working in England's cool, shady garden had seemed like a pleasant way to spend a Saturday afternoon. A pitcher of iced tea sat on a small bistro table; periodically they took a break and sat to rest and drink.

He worked the heavy shears through the thick canes. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his host gathering up fallen debris and carrying it to the waste pile. Bulgaria cut and cut, flinging the spent stalks aside as he worked, using his gloved left hand to hold them and his gloved right hand to manipulate the pruning shears.

Eventually he felt hot and needed a break; his hands ached. "May I stop now?" he asked.

"Wow! You've done bloody good work!" England beamed at him and took the shears. "Yes, by all means, come over and have some more cold tea. Take the jacket off; take the gloves off, if you like." He poured a drink for his guest.

Normally Bulgaria wouldn't have removed the gloves, but they felt as if they'd been punctured by rose thorns, so he peeled them off and examined them. Yes, there was some damage to them. "Damn," he muttered.

"Damage to the gloves? How are your hands?"

Hah. Bulgaria was so accustomed to wearing the gloves every day that he hadn't even considered his hands might be hurt! He checked them out, and – "I'm bleeding!" He held his hands out, palms up, to show England.

"Oh, dear. Does it hurt? Come inside. I think we can be done for today, and I can clean and bandage your hands. I'll get the frog or Romano to help me with the rest of this next weekend." He rose and led his guest into the isolated country cottage. "Come right upstairs. Everything's in my upstairs bathroom."

Together they walked up the short and narrow flight of stairs, Bulgaria looking and looking at his bleeding hands that yet did not hurt. England led him to a small bathroom and pulled some ointment and bandages out of the cabinet. "Wash your hands," he directed; "this is antibacterial soap." He pointed to the soap.

Bulgaria stuffed the mutilated gloves into his pocket and washed his hands, watching as thin trails of his bright blood flowed into the basin. It was such a shame that those beautiful flowers could deal so much damage. His country was famed for its roses as well. Although the phrase "English rose" had passed into the common language as a description of a beautiful British girl, and although France's signature flower was the rose, in reality 85% of the world's rose oil came from Bulgaria, and he loved the flowers. He simply wished they didn't hurt so damn much! He finished washing up and dried his hands on the soft white towel that England proffered. "Thank you. I'm sorry about this."

"No, no. It's my fault. I shouldn't make guests help with my yard work, or even with my housework." England opened the tube of ointment and squirted a small amount onto Bulgaria's palms. "Or I should have given you the gardening gloves. Hold on now. This may sting a bit." The visitor stood still and allowed England to massage the ointment into his palms; the island nation had strong, powerful hands that felt cool against his own.

Soon the ointment had been absorbed; the blond reached back without looking to grab the tin of plasters, and shook a few out onto the countertop. "I think you'll only need one per hand." He washed the ointment off his own hands and opened the first of the plasters.

"That's good. It's always hard to get anything done with large bandages."

"Mm-hmm," England agreed. Bulgaria watched as he peeled off the protective paper and applied the bandage across the worst of the cuts. Concentrating fiercely, the host repeated the process for the other hand. "There you go," he said, tossing the wrappers in the trash can. "You may need to be careful until you get home – don't want the bandages coming off – but you should be protected against infection, at least." He busied himself putting the medical things away. "I wouldn't put the gloves back on, if I were you."

The brunet examined his hands. The bandages had some kind of picture printed on them. What could it be? He raised his hands higher to peer at the picture and saw that the plasters were printed with photographs of naked women! "E-England," he began, before realizing his host might be embarrassed about them. Perhaps he'd forgotten?

"Yes?" Finished cleaning up, the island nation turned back.

"I – uh – nothing! Thank you for helping me," he stammered, hiding his hands behind his back.

"You're welcome. I'm simply sorry you injured yourself while trying to help." England gave a nice smile. "Come downstairs and let's have that cold drink."

"Y-yes. Thank you."

Together the two nations walked down the short, narrow staircase, Bulgaria sneaking peeks at the sexy bandages all the way down. He'd have to show Estonia later!

…

_The anagram was "Alluring Bandage."_


	151. Belarus and Ukraine

_Ah, last week I realized I'd never done either of these two, and I got a great anagram. _

_..._

**Belarus/Ukraine.**

"Oh, sister, this is very, very bad."

"Don't come complaining to me! It's your fault," Belarus snapped, surveying the scene. "I wish there was some way to keep this from spreading into my country. You should have situated it deeper within your own lands."

"Move it closer to Russia, you mean?" Ukraine asked, with a touch of malice. She knew that would shut her sister up. "Stop snapping at me." She shielded her eyes against the sight of the bright devastation around Chernobyl.

"This is going to take a long time to get under control." Practical as always, Belarus nodded. "And don't go bringing Brother Russia into this! He's got enough to worry about."

"I know. Well, I suppose we need to get people working on this."

"Right. You organize the removal of the bodies; I'll get people started digging graves."

Ukraine turned and sighed. Of course she'd get the dirty job. "Fine. And – and sister? Let's work hard together so that this never happens again." She held out her hand with a wobbly smile.

Belarus nodded. "Yes. Let us do that." They shook hands solemnly and each went home to begin making cleanup arrangements.

…

Ten years later the sisters met at the same location. "There is still talk," Belarus murmured, surveying the graves of the deceased. "The West says we lied about it. That many more people died here."

Ukraine bit her lip. There were obviously more graves here on site than the thirty-one they had reported to the world. But the graves had been left unmarked, and nature had begun to reclaim its land. New plant growth was stunted and bizarre, but it was undeniably there. "We can never tell," she replied, after some thought. "We are beginning to be taken seriously, but this would cause global issues and an eroding of that trust."

"I know. Health issues can be disputed, but if anyone learns of these mass burials, we will be right back to square one, and I doubt even Brother Russia could help us. Not for a very long time."

Ukraine crossed herself. "Let us always remember."

"I will do so." They shook hands and parted.

…

In 2006 they met, viewing the completely overgrown site. "Our secret is safe, sister," Belarus nodded, apparently pleased. "They may talk and debate, they may even accuse, but soon there will be no one left who could prove them right. We have done well."

Ukraine prayed briefly, head bowed, for the souls of all those who had died in the Chernobyl accident, and especially for all those buried here, whose involvement had had to be suppressed. Her government – as well as Belarus' – had done what it felt right, and now, now that the incident had faded into the pages of history, she could only hope that she and Belarus (and indeed all the other nations of the world) would have the courage to step up and deal with future such scenarios in an upright and forthcoming way. "I still mourn them," she told her sister.

"As do I. You may think that I am heartless and cruel, because I act so tough, but not a day goes by that I fail to remember these souls." She took Ukraine's hand.

"Do you think we should ever tell anyone?"

Belarus turned her beautiful eyes to Ukraine's. "I do not," she stated clearly. "It will cause more problems now than it would solve. They are dead and buried; the information is stale. Releasing the truth to the world will open a can of worms, will degrade our public image. And you know, it would not really do anything to help anyone."

"But setting the record straight – telling the truth –"

"Telling the truth would have been good at the beginning, if the Soviet party would have let us. Since they did not, there is truly nothing to be gained by repeating it now. We would be seen as attention-seekers, dredging up old pain from the past."

"I had not considered that." Ukraine bowed her head again. "I come here every year on this day," she confessed, "not just when you and I have arranged to meet. I want to honor the fallen who were not acknowledged."

Belarus pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at her buxom sister. "That is surprisingly noble of you, if in fact a little too sentimental. But perhaps I will start joining you. It is important for you and me to remember."

"You would always be welcome to join me, Belarus. Those who share suffering can gain consolation from remembering it together."

"Another sentimental platitude," her sister then snorted. "How like you. But I have said I would join you, and I will."

"Very well. Please, do not tell Russia about it."

Belarus smirked. "Russia knows better than we do the full extent of the damage."

"I didn't mean that! I meant about the discrepancy between what was reported and the actual body count."

"He knows that too."

"Did you tell him?" Ukraine felt tears spring to her eyes. After having kept this shameful secret for twenty years, to find out that Belarus had been blabbing –

"No, sister. Do not cry. Russia always knew. He had more people watching us than we ever knew of." Belarus sighed and twirled a lock of hair around her finger. "If only I'd known then how constantly he watched me…" Her voice grew dreamy as she stared out over the obliterated grave sites.

Ukraine knew it was time to take her leave. When her sister began focusing on Russia and not on the pain of the Chernobyl era, they were better off apart. "I will see you next year," she said formally, shaking Belarus' other hand.

"Yes." A pause. "You have a good heart, Ukraine. Just don't do anything stupid and sentimental! It will do us no good at all now."

"Yes, sister. I understand." With a sigh, Ukraine pushed hair out of her eyes, and turned, glancing at the burial site one last time. After all, that glance would have to last another entire year.

…

_Another surprisingly pertinent one. The anagram was "Nuke Era Burials."_


End file.
